LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Cha P J - Copyright No.. 

Shelf_V\: 

l,n, ted1t^teJof^m erica . 



AFTER- DINNER 
POETRY ™° SENTIAAENT 



A Collection or Short English Verse 

appropriate eor 

arter-dlnner reading and speaking; 

and Agreeable, Always. 



Selected and Arranged by 

AVERY KVEBB. 






1898. 

COLLECTOR PUBLISHING 
DETROIT, MICH. 




^ 






TWC COPIES RECEIVED. 




w 

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1898, by the 

Collector Publishing Company, in the office of the 

Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



PREFACE. 



This collection of short English poems represents a part of the 

random reading of an over-worked lawyer, who, for several years, 

has had little time for more ambitious reading. Many evenings, 

after dinner, have these light-hearted, whole-souled bards added a 

glow of warmth to a disposition chilled by the secular work of the 

day ; and their beautiful words, tender sentiments, patriotic impulses, 

humor, passion, pathos and hilarity, have helped to drive away dull 

care and smooth furrowed frowns into soft smiles. 

W. 
St. Louis, March 1st, 1898. 



To Honorable 

ROBERT L. TAYLOR, 

Governor of Tennessee, 

whose eloquence, music and mirth have 
charmed countless thousands, and whose 
genius as a statesman placed him in the 
Congress of the United States at the 
age of hut twenty-eight years, and sub- 
sequently made him twice Presidential 
Elector at Large, and thrice Governor 
of Tennessee — the generous patron of 
"Happiness 1 '' and the beloved idol of the 
people — this book is cordially inscribed by 
THE EDITOR. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Preface 

Dedication 



PAET I. 

LOVE AND PASSION. 

Together All the Year Round 13 

The Resolve Alexander Brome 14 

A Woman's Question Elizabeth Barrett Browning 14 

A Man's Requirements Elizabeth Barrett Browning 16 

The Lady's Yes Elizabeth Barrett Browning 17 

Highland Mary Robert Burns 18 

Prayer for Mary Robert Burns 19 

She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron 19 

All for Love Lord Byron 20 

He That Loves a Rosy Cheek Thomas Carew 21 

To Delia Samuel Danyell 21 

Wedded Love Annie P. Dennies 22 

Ah! How Sweet! John Dryden 23 

You Kissed Me Josephine S. Hunt 24 

Matrimonial Happiness John Lapraik 26 

Love at First Sight E. Bulwer-Lytton 26 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love C. Marlowe 27 

The Time I've Lost in Wooing Thomas Moore 28 

Lying Thomas Moore 29 

The Sweetest Flower That Blows Frederick Peterson 30 

Take, Oh, Take Those Lips Away William Shakespeare... 31 

Love and Marriage Richard B. Sheridan 31 

A Waltz Quadrille Ella Wheeler Wilcox 32 

My Dark-Hair'd Girl Anonymous 33 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long Anonymous 34 

The Loveliness of Love Anonymous 35 



4 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

PART II. 

FLOWERS. 

Page 

Flowers Allan Cunningham 39 

To a Daisy James Montgomery 39 

The Language of Flowers J. G. Percival 40 

To a Lady — With Flowers From a Roman Wall Walter 

Scott 41 

The Violet William W. Story 42 

Trailing Arbutus Rose Terry 42 

The Rose Edmund Waller 43 

To the Small Celandine William Wordsworth 44 

Flowers William Wordsworth 45 

PART III. 

IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 

The Bride of the Chevalier John Esten Cooke 49 

The Gambols of Children George Darley 52 

An Old Wedding Ring W. D. Ellwanger 53 

The Golden Wedding David Gray 54 

The Bachelor's Dream Thomas Hood 55 

At*Paris E. Bulwer-Lytton 57 

An Old Valentine Oliver Orr 58 

To My Pipe Robert R. Rinehart 59 

The Soul's Defiance Lavinia Stoddard 60 

Music William Strode 62 

Gaudeamus Igitur John Addington Symonds 62 

An Old Fan (To Kitty her Reverie) Ella Wheeler Wilcox. . 63 

PART IV. 

PATRIOTISM. 

A Star in the West Elizabeth Drake Cobb 67 

The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 68 

Old Tennessee A. J. Holt 70 

What Constitutes a State Sir William Jones 71 



CONTENTS. 5 

I 

Page 

The Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara 72 

Ashes of Glory Augustus Julian Requier 75 

Erin's Flag Father Ryan 76 

Our State John G. Whittier 78 



PAET Y. 

VERS DE SOCIETE. 

The Dearest of All The Benedict 81 

Love's Logic Chamber's Journal 82 

The Young Man Waited J. Edmund V. Cooke 83 

Girls to Trade Detroit News 85 

Inconstancy J. R. Drake 85 

Ferdmando and Elvira W. S. Gilbert 86 

The Little Widow 'Frisco Town Talk 88 

To a Society Woman James Gardner 89 

The Contemporary Suitor Harper's 90 

Bargains in Hearts Maud Hosford 91 

Her Choice Life 92 

Sex Talionis Life 92 

The New Cupid London World 93 

Cupid and Campaspe John Lyle 94 

Reason, Folly and Beauty Thomas Moore 94 

The Bell of the Ball W. Mackworth Praed 95 

At the Dance Robert R. Rinehart 98 

Take Your Time Harry Romaine 99 

My Familiae John Godfrey Saxe 100 

Blase Ella Wheeler Wilcox 101 

Love in a Cottage N. P. Willis 103 

Where Heaven Is Joseph Wheless 104 

Indecision 104 



PART VI. 

COMEDY AND HUMOR 

Our Amateur Theatricals Argonaut 109 

Why Don't the Men Propose Thomas Haynes Bayley 110 



6 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Page 

Plaint of the Pessimist Ben King 110 

The Retort George P. Morris Ill 

The Editor's Wooing Robert H. Newell 112 

A Polka Lyric Barclay Philips 113 

Lines to Bessy Punch 114 

The Sated One 114 

The Chemist to His Love Punch 115 

Courtship and Matrimony Punch 116 

Comic Miseries John Godfrey Saxe 117 



PAKT VII. 

TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

Bring the Flask, the Music Bring Isaac Bickerstaff 123 

Two Men I Know 124 

Song Alexander Brome 125 

To His Friend that Had Vowed Small-Beer Alexander 

Brome 125 

Here's to Thy Health, My Bonnie Lass Robert Burns 126 

To a Lady (With a Present of a Pair of Drinking Glasses) 

Robert Burns 127 

John Barleycorn Robert Burns 128 

A Toast Robert Burns 129 

A Bottle and Friend Robert Burns 130 

The Toast Robert Burns 130 

Lines to Mr. Moore Lord Byron 131 

Song Lord Byron 131 

The Island Lord Byron 132 

Defiance Lord Byron 133 

German Drinking Song Thomas Campbell 133 

Song Thomas Campbell 134 

Song of Sack John Cleveland 134 

Come, Let's Mind Our Drinking Charles Cotton 135 

Fill the Bowl Abraham Cowley 136 

Bumpers, Squire Jones Arthur Dawson 136 

Gluggity Glug George Coleman 139 



CONTENTS. 



Revelry in India Bartholomew Dowling 140 

The New King Arthur Edgar Fawcett 142 

When I Drain the Rosy Bowl Francis Fawkes 144 

Wine, Women and Song Eugene Field 145 

To a Jar of Wine Eugene Field 146 

A Drinking Song Eugene Field 147 

A Rhine-Land Drinking Song Eugene Field 148 

W T ine John Gay 149 

Give Me But the Foam of the Light Wine Emanuel Giebel. 156 

The Social Cup Charles Gray 157 

It is to Thee I Drink Junius L. Hempstead 158 

Sparkling and Bright Charles Fenno Hoffman 159 

Ode for a Social Meeting Oliver Wendell Holmes 160 

Drink to Me Only Ben Johnson 161 

Metamorphosed Gipsies Ben Johnson 161 

The Revellers Walter Malone 161 

Woman John Milton 163 

To Ladies' Eyes Thomas Moore 164 

Drink to Her Thomas Moore 165 

Drink to This Cup Thomas Moore 166 

Come, Send Round the Wine Thomas Moore 167 

Fill the Bumper Fair Thomas Moore 167 

Send the Bowl Round Merrily Thomas Moore 169 

'Tis When the Cup is Smiling Thomas Moore 170 

Wreathe the Bowl Thomas Moore 171 

Lalla Rookh Thomas Moore 173 

One Bumper at Parting Thomas Moore 173 

Anacreon Thomas Moore 174 

Anacreon Thomas Moore 175 

Anacrontic Thomas Moore 175 

The Toper's Apology Charles Morris 176 

In Praise of Good Beer Thomas Nabbes 178 

A Glass is Good John O'Keefe 179 

Air — "Don Caesar" John O'Keefe 180 

Whisky Joseph O'Leary 181 

Venice Preserved Thomas Otway 183 

Pervigilium Veneris Parnell's Trans 183 



8 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Page 

The Goblet J. G. Percival 183 

A Health Edward Coate Pinckney 184 

Song Byron W. Proctor 185 

Upon Drinking in a Bowl Earl of Rochester 186 

Coffee Francis S. Saltus 187 

Chocolate Francis S. Saltus 187 

Tea Francis S. Saltus 188 

Champagne Frappe Francis S. Saltus 18S 

Port Francis S. Saltus 189 

Tokai Francis S. Saltus 189 

Brandy Francis S. Saltus 190 

Bass's Ale Francis S. Saltus 191 

Anisette Francis S. Saltus 191 

Beer Francis S. Saltus 192 

Here's a Health to King Charles Sir Walter Scott 192 

Song Richard B. Sheridan 193 

Song Richard B. Sheridan 194 

Glee and Chorus Richard B. Sheridan 195 

The Soldier William Smyth 195 

Love and Debt Sir John Suckling 196 

Grainevert's Song in "Brennoralt" Sir John Suckling 197 

Wine and Venus John Addington Symonds 197 

A Sequence in Praise of Wine John Addington Symonds.. 198 

A Carol of Wine John Addington Symonds 199 

The Student's Wine-Bout John Addington Symonds 200 

Time's A-Flying John Addington Symonds 201 

The Goblet Bayard Taylor 201 

Summer's Bacchanal Bayard Taylor 204 

I Would Drink Post Wheeler 205 

When Shall We Three Meet Again Anonymous 205 

A Song for Drinking 206 

A Song for Love 206 

Suffolk Harvest-Home Song 207 

In Praise of Wine 207 

How Stands the Glass Around 209 

Military Toast 209 

Coffey 210 

A Toast 210 

Miscellaneous Toasts 210, 211 



CONTENTS. 9 

PAET VIII. 

EPIGRAMS. 

Page 

What An Epigram Is S. T. Coleridge 215 

On Life Mrs. Bar bauld 215 

H. J. Byron 215 

On a Bad Singer S. T. Coleridge 216 

On Good Music and Bad Dancing Congreve 216 

On An Alderman John Cunningham 216 

On Marriages in Heaven Robert Dodsley 216 

On a Lame Beggar Dr. Donne 217 

Sir John Harrington 217 

The Race is Not to the Swift Herrick 217 

On Modesty Aaron Hill 217 

To the Duke of Bedford, on His Group of the Three Graces, 

by Canova Frederick Howard 218 

Klopstock 218 

Conversation Lockhart 218, 219 

The Surprise Thomas Moore 219 

A Joke Versified Thomas Moore 219 

Lord Nugent 219 

A General Rule Alexander Pope 219, 220 

Bibo M. Prior 220 

On J. W. Ward, Afterwards Earl of Dudley Rogers 220 

The History of a Case, Shortly Reported by a Master in Chan- 
cery Sir G. Rose 220, 221 

Love and Reason R. B. Sheridan 221 

Stolen Kisses Philip Smyth 221 

My Love and I William Strode 221 

On a Gentlewoman Walking in the Snow Dr. W. Strode. . . 222 

On the Vowels Swift 222 

The Parity Truth 222 

On a Girdle Edmund Waller 223 

A Legal Rhapsody Joseph Wheless 223 

Amy Wentworth J. G. Whittier 223 

A Woman's Will 224 

On Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son 224 

On a Liar 224 

On a Dinner Out 224 



10 AFTEH-DINNEK POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Page 

On a Certain Man's Veracity 225 

On a Loving Couple 225 

On a Woman and Hymen 225 

On Evening Dress 225 

Written on a Looking-Glass 226 

Answer by a Lady 226 

On Dress v. Dinner 226 

On a Lady's Wearing a Patch 226 

My Wife and 1 226, 227 

An Essay on the Understanding 227 

On Another 227 

A Change of Tenant 227 

On a Lady With a Red-Nosed Husband 227, 228 

Lent and Borrowed 22& 

The Courtier and the Scholar 228 

The First Pun 228 

The Freshman's Woe 228 

Novels Reviewed in Rhyme 229 

In Three Acts 229 

A Fallen Idol 229 

A Pressed Leaf 230 




PART I. 

Love and Passion, 



TOGETHER 



ALL. THE YEAR ROUND. 



The winter wind is wailing sad and low, 

Across the lake and through the rustling sedge; 

The splendor of the golden after-glow 
Gleams through the blackness of the great yew hedge; 

And this I read on earth and in the sky: 

"We ought to be together, you and I." 

Rapt through its rosy changes into dark, 
Fades all the west; and through the shadowy trees, 

And in the silent uplands of the park, 
Creeps the soft sighing of the rising breeze; 

It does but echo to my weary sigh: 

"We ought to be together, you and I." 

My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear, 

My ear is tired, waiting for your call; 
I want your strength to help, your laugh to cheer; 

Heart, soul and senses need you, one and all. 
I droop without your full, frank sympathy— 
We ought to be together, you and I. 

We want each other so to comprehend 

The dream, the hope, things planned or seen or wrought; 
Companion, comforter, and guide and friend, 

As much as love asks love, does thought need thought. 
Life is so short, so fast the lone hours fly — 
We ought to be together, you and I. 



14 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT 

. THE EESOLYE. 



ALEXANDER EROME. 



Tell me not of a face that's fair, 

Nor lip and cheek that's red, 
Nor of the tresses of her hair, 

Nor curls in order laid; 
Nor of a rare seraphic voice, 

That like an angel sings; 
Though, if I were to take my choice, 

I would have all these things. 
But if that thou wilt have me love, 

And it must be a she; 
The only argument can move 

Is, that she will love me. 

The glories of your ladies be 

But metaphors of things, 
And but resemble what we see 

Each common object brings. 
Roses outred their lips and cheeks, 

Lilies their whitness stain: 
What fool is he that shadow seeks, 

And may the substance gain? 
Then, if thou'lt have me love a lass, 

Let it be one that's kind, 
Else I'm a servant to the glass 

That's with canary lined. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



Do you know that you have asked for the costliest thing 

Ever made by the Hand above — 
A woman's heart a woman's life, 

And a woman's wonderful love. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 15 

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing 

As a child might ask for a toy? 
Demanding what others have died to win, 

With the reckless dash of a boy? 

You have written my lesson of duty out, 

Man-like you have questioned me — 
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, 

Until I shall question thee. 

You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
Your socks and your shirts always be whole 

I require your heart to be true as God's stars, 
And pure as heaven your soul. 

You require a cook for your mutton and beef; 

I require a far better thing; 
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts — 

I look for a man and a king. 

A king for a beautiful realm called home, 

And a man that the maker, God, 
Shall look upon as He did the first, 

And say, "It is very good." 

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 

From my soft, young cheek one day — 
Will you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves 

As you did 'mid the bloom of May? 

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep 

I may launch my all on its tide? 
A loving woman finds heaven or hell 

On the day she is made a bride. 

I require all things that are grand and true, 

All things that a man should be; 
If you give this all, I would stake my life 

To be all you demand of me. 

If you cannot do this — a laundress and cook 

You can hire, with little to pay; 
But a woman's heart and a woman's life 

Are not to be won that way. 



16 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

A MAN'S KEQUIKEMEOTS. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



Love me, sweet, with all thou art, 

Feeling, thinking, seeing; 
Love me in the lightest part, 

Love me in full being. 

Love me with thine open youth 

In its frank surrender, 
With the vowing of thy mouth, 

With its silence tender. 

Love me with thine azure eyes, 

Made for earnest granting; 
Taking color from the skies, 

Oan heaven's truth be wanting? 

Love me with their lids, that fall 

Snow-like at first meeting; 
Love me with thine heart, that all 

Neighbors then see beating. 

Love me with thine hand stretched out 

Freely, open minded; 
Love me with thy loitering foot, 

Hearing one behind it. 

Love me with thy voice, that turns 

Sudden faint above me; 
Love me with thy blush, that burns 

When I murmur, Love me! 

Love me with thy thinking soul, 

Break it to love — sighing; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 

On through living — dying. 

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 
When the world has crowned thee; 

Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 
With the angels round thee. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 

Love me pure, as musers do, 

Up the woodlands shady, 
Love me gayly, fast, and true, 

As a winsome lady. 

Through all hopes that keep us brave, 

Farther off or nigher; 
Love me for the house and grave — 

And for something higher. 

Thus if thou will prove me, dear, 

Woman's love no fable 
I will love thee— half a year— 

As a man is able. 



17 



THE LADY'S YES. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



"Yes," I answered you last night; 

"No," this morning, sir, I say: 
Colors seen by candle-light 

Will not look the same by day. 
Love me sounded like a jest, 

Fit for yes or fit for no. 

Call me false, or call me free, 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 

No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both; 

Time to dance is not to woo: 
Wooing light makes fickle troth, 

Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 
Nobly, as the thing is high, 

Bravely, as for life and death, 
With a loyal gravity. 



18 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Lead her from the festive boards, 
Point her to the starry skies; 

Guard her by your truthful words 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 
Ever true, as wives of yore; 

And her yes once said to you 
Shall be yes forevermore. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

Hew sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But oh! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 



LOVE AND PASSION. 19 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for ay the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



PRAYER FOR MARY. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care: 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest: 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me 

Make her bosom still my home. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 



LORD BYRON. 



She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 



20 AFTEP.-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
When the viols played their best, 
Lamps above, and laughs below, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure — how dear the dwelling place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 



ALL FOR LOYE. 



LORD BYRON. 



talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
What care I for the wreath that can only give glory? 

O, Fame! — I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 21 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



HE THAT LOVES A KOSY CHEEK. 



THOMAS CAREW. 



He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain its fires; 
As old Time makes these decay, 

So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires; 

Where these are not, I despise 
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 



TO DELIA. 



SAMUEL DANYELL. 



Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty, 

Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal, 
Returning thee the tribute of my duty, 

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. 
Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, 

Where I have cast th' accounts of all my care; 
Here have I summed my sighs; here I enrol 

How they were spent for thee; look what they are. 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Look on the dear expenses of my youth, 
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes: 

Examine well thy beauty with my truth; 
And cross my cares, ere greater cares arise. 

Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly; 
Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly. 



WEDDED LOVE. 



ANNIE P. DENNIES. 



Come, rouse thee, dearest! — 'tis not well 

To let the spirit brood 
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell 

Life's current to a flood. 
As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all 
Increase the gulf in which they fall, 
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills 
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills, 
And with their gloomy shades conceal 
The landmarks Hope would else reveal. 

Come, rouse thee, now — I know thy mind, 

And would its strength awaken; 
Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind, — 

Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken! 
But rouse afresh each energy, 
And be what Heaven intended thee; 
Throw from thy thoughs this wearying weighty 
And prove thy spirit firmly great: 
I would not see thee bend below 
The angry storms of earthly woe. 

Full well I know the generous soul 

Which warms thee into life, 
Each spring which can its powers control, 

Familiar to thy wife, — 
For deem'st thou she had stooped to bind 
Her fate unto a cotnmon mind? 



LOVE AND PASSION. 

The eagle-like ambition, nursed 
From childhood in her heart, had first 
Consumed, with its Promethean flame, 
The shrine— then sunk her soul to shame. 

Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 

That fetters now thy powers: 
Shake off this gloom— Hope sheds a beam 

To gild each cloud which lowers; 
And though at present seems so far 
The wished— for goal— a guiding star, 
With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 
Until its utmost bounds be won: 
That quenchless ray thou'lt ever prove 
In fond, undying Wedded Love. 



AH! HOW SWEET! 



JOHN DRYDEN. 



Ah! how sweet it is to love! 

Ah! how gay is young desire; 
And what pleasing pains we prove, 

When we first approach love's fire: — 
Pains of love are sweeter far 

Than all other pleasures are. 

Sighs which are from lovers blown 
Do but gently heave the heart: 

E'en the tears they shed alone, 
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 

Lovers, when they lose their breath, 
Bleed away in easy death. 

Love and Time with reverence use, 
Treat them like a parting friend; 

Nor the golden gifts refuse 
Which in youth sincere they send: 

For each year their price is more, 
And they less simple than before. 



24 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Love, like spring-tides full and high, 
Swells in every youthful vein; 
But each tide does less supply 

Till they quite shrink in again. 
If a flow in age appear, 

'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. 



YOU KISSED ME. 



JOSEPHINE S. HUNT. 

You kissed me! My head 

Dropped low on your breast 
With a feeling of shelter 

And infinite rest, 
While the holy emotions 

My tongue dared not speak 
Flashed up in a flame 

From my heart to my cheek. 
Your arms held me fast; 

O, your arms were so bold; 
Heart beat against heart 

In their passionate fold. 
Your glances seemed drawing 

My soul through my eyes, 
As the sun draws the mist 

From the seas to the skies. 
Your lips clung to mine 

Till I prayed in my bliss 
They might never unclasp 

From this rapturous kiss. 

You kissed me! My heart, 
And my breath, and my will 

In delirious joy 

For a moment stood still. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 25 

Life had for me then 

No temptations, no charms — 
No visions of happiness 

Outside of your arms. 
And were I this instant 

An angel possessed 
Of the peace and the joy 

That are given the blest, 
I would fling my white robes 

Unrepiningly down, 
I would tear from my forehead 

Its beautiful crown, 
To nestle once more 

In that haven of rest — 
Your lips upon mine, 

My head on your breast. 

You kissed me! My soul, 

In a bliss so divine. 
Reeled and swooned like a drunken man 

Foolish with wine, 
And I thought 'twere delicious 

To die there if death 
Would but come while my lips 

Were yet moist with your breath; 
'Twere delicious to die 

If I might grow cold 
While your arms clasped me round 

In their passionate fold. 
And these are the questions 

I ask day and night: 
Must my lips taste no* more 

Such exquisite delight? 

Would you care if your breast 

Were my shelter as then. 
And if you were here 

Would you kiss me again? 



26 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

MATKIMONIAL HAPPINESS. 



JOHN LAPRAIK. 



When I upon thy bosom lean, 

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
I glory in the sacred ties 

That made us ane wha ance were twain. 
A mutual flame inspires us baith, 

The tender look, the meltin' kiss; 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our lore, 

But only gie us change of bliss. 

Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee! 

I ken thy wish is me to please; 
Our moments pass sae smooth away, 

That numbers on us look and gaze; 
Weel pleased they see our happy days, 

Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; 
And aye when weary cares arise, 

Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest; 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drop a tear. 
Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain! 

United still her heart and mine; 
They're like the woodbine round the tree, 

That's twined till death shall them disjoin. 



LOVE AT EIEST SIGHT. 



E. BULWER-LYTTON. 



Into my heart a silent look 
Flashed from thy careless eyes, 



LOVE AND PASSION. 27 

And what before was shadow, took 

The light of summer skies. 
The first-born love was in that look; 
And Venus rose from out the deep 

Of those inspiring eyes. 

My life, like some lone solemn spot 

A spirit passes o'er, 
Grew instinct with a glory not 

In earth or heaven before. 
Sweet trouble stirred the haunted spot, 
And shook the leaves of every thought 

Thy presence wandered o'er! 

My being yearned, and crept to thine, 

As if in times of yore 
Thy soul has been a part of mine, 

Which claimed it back once more. 
Thy very self no longer thine, 
But merged in that delicious life, 

Which made us one of yore! 

There bloomed beside thee forms as fair, 

There murmured tones as sweet, 
But round thee breathed the enchanted air 

'Twas life and death to meet. 
And henceforth thou alone wert fair, 
And thou the stars has sung for joy, 

Thy whisper only sweet! 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOYE. 



C. MARLOWE. 



Come live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

There will we sit upon the rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madigrals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds 
With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And of these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall on an ivory table be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning; 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 



THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In Woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 29 

Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 

I scorn'd the lore she brought me, 
My only books 
Were Woman's looks, 

And folly's all they've taught me. 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him, the Sprite, 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 

Like him, too, Beauty won me 

But while her eyes were on me — 
If once their ray 
Was turn'd away. 

Oh! winds could not out run me. 

And are those follies going? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold and wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing? 

No — vain, alas! the endeavor 

From bonds so sweet to sever; — 
Poor Wisdom's chance 
Against a glance 

Is now as weak as ever! 



LYING. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



I do confess, in many a sigh, 

My lips have breath'd you many a lie, 

And who, with such delights in view, 

Would lose them for a lie or two? 

Nay — look not thus, with brow reproving: 

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

If half we tell the girls were true, 
If half we swear to think and do, 
Were aught but lying's bright illusion, 
The world would be in strange confusion! 

If ladies' eyes were, every one, 
As lovers swear, a radiant sun, 
Astronomy should leave the skies, 
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! 
Oh, no! — believe me, lovely girl, 
When nature turns your teeth to pearl, 
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, 
Your yellow locks to golden wire, 
Then, only then, can heaven decree, 
That you should live for only me, 
Or I for you, as night and morn, 
We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn. 

And now, my gentle hints to clear, 
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! 
Whenever you may chance to meet 
A loving youth, whose love is sweet, 
Long as you're false and he believes you, 
Long as you trust and he deceives you, 
So long the blissful bond endures; 
And while he lies, his heart is yours: 
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth 
The instant that he tells you truth! 



THE SWEETEST FLOWER THAT BLOWS. 



FREDERICK PETERSON. 



The sweetest flower that blows 
I give you as we part; 

For you it is a rose; 
For me it is my heart. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 31 

The fragrance it exhales 

(Ah, if you only knew!) 
Which but in dying fails, 

It is my love of you. 

The sweetest flower that grows 

I give you as we part; 
You think it but a rose; 

Ah, me; it is my heart. 



TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



Take, oh, take those lips away, 
That so sweetly were forsworn! 

And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn; 

But my kisses bring again, 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow; 

Which thy frozen bosom bears! 
On those tops the pinks that grow 

Are of those that April wears; 
But first set my poor heart free, 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 



LOVE AND MAEEIAGE. 



RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



Still the question I must parry 
Still a wayward truant prove: 

Where I love, I must not marry; 
Where I marry, cannot love. 



AFTER-DINNER POETRT AND SENTIMENT. 

Were she fairest of creation, 
With the least presuming mind: 

Learned without affectation; 
Not deceitful, yet refined; 

Wise enough, but never rigid; 

Gay, hut not too lightly free; 
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid; 

Warm, yet satisfied with me; 

Were she all this ten times over, 
All that Heaven to earth allows, 

I should be too much her lover 
Ever to become her spouse. 



A WALTZ QUADKILLE/ 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 



The band was playing a waltz-quadrille, 

I felt as light as a wind-blown feather, 
As we floated away, at the caller's will, 

Through the intricate, mazy dance together. 
Like mimic armies our lines were meeting, 
Slowly advancing, and then retreating, 

All decked in their bright array; 
And back and forth to the music's rhyme 
We moved together, and all the time 

I knew you were going away. 

The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill 
From heart to brain as we gently glided 

Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille; 
Parted, met, and again divided — 

You drifted one way, and I another, 

Then suddenly turning and facing each other, 
Then off in the blithe chasse, 



*W. B. Conkey & Company, Chicago, Publishers. 



LOVE AND PASSION. M 

Then airily back to our places swaying, 
While every beat of the music seemed saying 
That you were going away. 

I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill 

Of mirth, and music, and love, and laughter; 
For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille, 

And life will be never the same life after. 
Oh, that the caller might go on calling, 
Oh, that the music might go on falling 

Like a shower of silver spray, 
While we whirled on to the vast Forever, 
Where no hearts break, and no ties sever, 

And no one goes away." 

A clamor, a crash, and the band was still, 

'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: 
The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille 

Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure. 
You said good-night, and the spell was over — 
Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover — 

There was nothing else to say; 
But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, 
And the music was sad and the ball was dreary, 

After you went away. 



MY DARK-HAIR'D GIRL. 



ANONYMOUS. 



My dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck, 

In silken curl thy graceful neck; 

Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the pearl, 

And light as air the steps of my dark-hair'd girl. 

My dark-hair'd girl, upon thy lip 

The dainty bee might wish to sip; 

For thy lip is like the rose, and thy teeth they are pearl, 

And diamond is the eye of my dark-hair'd girl. 



34 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

My dark-hair'd girl, I've promised thee, 

And thou thy faith hast given me; 

And oh, I would not change for the crown of an earl, 

The pride of being loved by my dark-hair'd girl. 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOYE ME LONG. 



ANONYMOUS. 



Love me little, love me long! 
Is the burden of my song: 
Love that is too hot and strong 

Burneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold — 
Not too backward, nor too bold; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth not in haste. 
Love me little, love me long! 
Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true a touch; 
Love me little more than such, — 

For I fear the end. 
I'm with little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent 

To be steadfast, friend. 

Say thou lovest me, while thou live 
I to thee my love will give, 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures: 
May, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now when in my May of youth: 

This my love assures. 



LOVE AND PASSION. 35 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever; 
Give me that with true endeavor, — 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers, — that for me, — 
For the land or for the sea: 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat; 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel; 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Inou must give, or woo in vain: 

So to thee — farewell! 



THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 



ANONYMOUS. 



It is not Beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. 

Tell me not of your starry eyes, 
Your lips that seems on roses fed, 

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed: — 

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, 



36 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

These are but gauds: nay what are lips? 

Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
Whose brink when your adventure slips 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood? 

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good! 

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn 
Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; 

There's many a white hand holds an urn 
With lover's hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows there's naught within: 
They are but empty cells for pride; 

He who the Syren's hair would win 
Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 
A tender heart, a loyal mind 

Which with temptation I would trust, 
Yet never link'd with error find, — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 

Like the case-burthen'd honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 

My earthly Comforter! whose love 

So indefeasible might be 
That, when my spirit wann'd above, 

Her's could not stay, for sympathy. 



-^S^ 



PART II. 

Flowers* 



^^c 



FLO WEES. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



*N 



There is a lesson in each flower, \ 

A story in each stream and bower; \ 

In every herb on which you tread, 
Are written words, which rightly read, 
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, 
To hope, and holiness, and God. 



TO A DAISY. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 



There is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye, 

That welcomes every changing hour, 
And wreaths every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field, 
In gay but quick succession shine; 

Race after race their honors yield, 
They flourish and decline. 

But this small flower, to Nature dear, 
While moons and stars their courses run, 

Enwreaths the circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 



40 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charm, 

Lights pale October on his way, 
And twines December's arm. 

The purple heath and golden broom, 
On moony mountains catch the gale; 

O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
The violet in the vale. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 

Plays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox's den. 

Within the garden's cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation's bed; 

And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem; 

The wild bee murmurs on its breast; 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 

Light o'er the skylark's nest. 

'Tis Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair; 

It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 

On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise; 

The rose has but a summer reign; 
The Daisy never dies! 



THE LANGUAGE OE ELOWERS. 



J. G. PERCIVAL. 



In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; 



FLOWERS. 



41 



Bach blossom that blooms in their garden bowera 
On its leaves a mystic language bears. 

The rose is the sign of joy and love, 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; 

And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, 
From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. 

Innocence shines in the lily's bell, 
Pure as a heart in its native heaven; 

Fame's bright star and glory's swell, 
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given. 

The silent, soft, and humble heart, 
In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes; 

And the tender soul that cannot part, 
A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. 

The cypress that darkly shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns its bitter lot; 

And faith that a thousand ills can brave, 
Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not. 

Then gather a wreath from thy garden bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 



TO A LADY 



WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. 



WALTER SCOTT. 



Take these flowers which, purple waving; 

On the ruin'd rampart grew, 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 
Warriors from the breach of danger 

Pluck no longer laurels there; 
They but yield the passing stranger 

Wild-flowers wreathes for Beauty's hair. 



42 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

THE VIOLET. 



WILLIAM W. STORY. 



O! faint, delicious, spring-time violet, 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's ward to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon thy brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-bourne bells, more sweet and low, 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; 

The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O pass, ye visions, pass! 

I would that I were dead! — 

Why has thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee? 
O vanished Joy! O Love, that are no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be! 

O violet! thy odor through my brain 

Hath searched, and stung to grief 
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 

Thy velvet leaf. 



TEAZLING AKBUTUS. 



ROSE TERRY. 



Darlings of the forest! 
Blossoming, alone, 



FLOWERS. 43 

When Earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone— 
Ere the last snow-drift melts your tender buds have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Like the morning sky, 
Or, more pale and saintly, 
Wrapped in leaves ye lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There the wild wood-robin, 

Hymns your solitude; 
And the rain comes sobbing 

Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but dares not be more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew — 
Starlight unimpassioned, 
Dawn's most tender hue, 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you? 

Fairest and most lovely, 

From the world apart; 
Made for beauty only, 

Veiled from Nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art. 

Were not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade. 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played. 



THE KOSE. 



EDMUND WALLER. 



Go, lovely rose! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 



44 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no omen abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired — 

Bid her come forth — 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises; 

Long as there's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory; 

Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story: 
There's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requitted upon earth; 

Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 



FLOWERS. 



45 



Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love! 



FLOWERS. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



God made the flowers to beautify 
The earth, and cheer man's careful mood, 
And he is happiest who hath power 
To gather wisdom from a flower, 
And wake his heart in every hour 
To pleasant gratitude. 




»mmw 




PART III, 

Imagination and Reflection, 

7M? 



THE BPJDE OF THE CHEVALIER 



JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 



A lucky man is the Chevalier, 

The Chevalier Louis D'Or; 
He won my beautiful love from me; 

He was rich — I very poor: 
So very poor that the prudent maid, 

When we were weighed in the scales together, 
Found the one side heavy as lead, 

My own as light as a feather! 

What then were the loves of hoy and girl 

Who had played for years 'neath the oak-tree tall, 
And plighted their troth a thousand times, 

— When the Chevalier came to the hall? 
He came in a chariot gay and fine, 

I, through the dust of the common way; 
'Twas a silly thought that a woman's heart 

Could say the rich man nay. 

He made his elegant bow, and smiled; 

He came again and the day was won: 
When a month had passed he was there no more, 

And the light from the hall was gone: 
The light and life of the house and lawn 

Had disappeared with the form so dear; 
My pride and joy, my hope, my all, 

Was the bride of the Chevalier! 

And now, good friend, do you ask again, 
Why woman with me is a word of scorn? 

I loved this girl with a doting love, 
And she made my life forlorn! 



50 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

She sold her maiden body and soul 
For silks and jewels, and plate and gold: 

Faith, and truth, and honor, and heart 
—Sold, sold, sold! 

The false and feeble heart gave way; 

She made me the man you see me now — 
With the silver in my youthful hair 

And the furrows here on my brow: 
She taught me then, in my early youth, 

That women were false, and weak, and mean: 
If she had clung to her troth — who knows — 

My life — what it might have been? 

For Spring was then in the bud with me; 

My father left me a noble name — 
With love to shine on the rugged path, 

I looked to the heights of fame: 
And now — I ponder, and mope and dream 

Through a weary life that I hate, my friend, 
And but for the fear of the coward's hiss 

At a coward's act, would end! 

Do you think I envy the Chevalier 

His beautiful bride with the sunny curls — 
The woman I loved with a foolish love — 

Adored as the pearl of pearls? 
The Chevalier is prince of the Town, 

But I am king of the world of Thought — 
He is welcome, for me, as the flowers in May, 

To the bride whom his money bought! 

And she, with a soul that loved alone 

The red-gold's sheen, and the back low bent 
To the gilded coach — is welcome too; 

She may reign to her heart's content; 
She loved me once, if she does not now, 

When a freezing stare would greet my claim. 
To an old acquaintance, years ago, 

With the splendid city dame! 



IMAGINATION AND [REFLECTION. 51 

These words I said with a bitter heart, 

And thought with scorn of the laughing queen, 
As I walked with a scowl, through the smiling woods, 

And over the meadows green; — 
But when I met, at a ball last night, 

The beautiful bride of the Chevalier, 
You may laugh, but I swear, at sight of me, 

Her eye was dim with a tear! 

Does she think — I said — in the dance's whirl, 

As she sees me here, of the hours long gone — 
The hours we spent in the dear old hall, 

And under the oaks on the lawn? 
I turned away, for the dance was done, 

I turned away with a bitter heart — 
But a slender finger touched my arm — 

We walked from the crowd apart. 

Shall I write the words of the voice that shook, 

As the blue eyes filled with a sudden tear? 
The words would scarcely bring a smile 

To the lips of the Chevalier! 
"Alas! for the days," were the murmured words, 

"We passed in the hall, by the sunny stream, 
The old, old days come back to me, 

Like a happy, smiling dream! 

"And you — you have never married, sir — 

You do not love me — I see that well: 
You pity me, or perhaps despise 

The married ball-room belle! 
But oh! if you knew why the blaze and din 

Of balls is all that I live for now — 
You would know that the pearls that loop my hair 

Droop over a burning brow! 

"I have pined, long years, for the present hour — 
I have tried, with a trembling hand, to write; 

But the time has come; we are face to face, 
You shall know the truth to-night!" 

And the truth, the terrible, awful truth, 
I heard from the lips that were yet so dear: 



52 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

She had loved me still, with her heart of hearts, 
When the bride of the Chevalier! 

A guardian's threat, and a feeble will, 

Had made her yield to the awful shame- 
She told me all with a writhing lip 

And a cheek that burned like flame. 
She told me all, as I shuddered there; 

She begged like a child for a word of grace — 
From me who longed to draw her close 

In a passionate, wild embrace! 

But the madness passed, and I said no more 

Than the simple words I write down here, — 
"I love you, my darling, and pardon all," 

Then I bowed to the Chevalier: 
She took his arm with a smothered sigh 

And a look so sad as they passed away, 
That the blue eyes wet with tears will haunt 

My heart to its dying day. 

And so, I have told, good friend of mine, 

The story the world has got by heart. 
I do not mutter against my fate, 

For each must play his part: 
For me, I have worn the "inky cloak" 

While you may have danced in ribbons gay; 
But the dress is naught so the heart is right, 

And we watch, and praise, and pray! 



THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. 



GEORGE DARLET. 



Down the dimpled green-sward dancing, 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — ■ 

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy. 



IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 53 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How they glimmer, how they quiver! 
Sparkling one another after, 

Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, 
Make your mocks and sly grimaces 

At Love's self, and do not fear it. 



AN OLD WEDDING KING. 



W. D. ELLVv r ANGER. 



What a symbol of love is that circle of gold, 
By the token of which our devotion was told; 
How our youthful affection shines out, as it seems, 
In the light of the romance around it that gleams: 
And it knows no beginning or ending, or why 
Its continuing course should not run till we die. 

And a sigh and a seal of our reverence, too, 
Had a part in our creed, when that old ring was new, 
When a slender, light hand was upraised to our lips 
And our kisses were pressed on its slim finger tips. 
For that circle of gold seemed a hallowing pledge 
Of a homage profounder than words dare allege. 

But the metal that's purest wears quickest away, 
And that old wedding ring has grown thinner to-day; 
Yet the hand which it graced graces it in its turn 
With a magic the alchemist vainly would learn. 
For sweet charity's touch has so filled it with gold 
That that hand never lacked to the hungry and cold. 

And the summers may come and the summers may go, 

And the winters may whiten the hair with their snow; 

Still the hand which a lover delighted to kiss 

Wears the signet of half a century's bliss, 

And no earnest of joy in the Heavens above 

Is more sure than that ring and its cycle of love. 



54 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

THE GOLDEJST WEDDING. 



DAVID GRAY. 



Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 

Life's longest path have trod, 
Whose ministry hath symboled sweet 

The dearer love of God, — 
The sacred myrtle wreathes again 

Thine altar, as of old; 
And what was green with summer then, 

Is mellowed now to sold. 

Not now, as then, the Future's face 

Is flushed with fancy's light; 
But Memory, with a milder grace, 

Shall rule the feast to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone, 

Nor less the blinding shower — 
The bud of fifty years agone 

Is Love's perfected flower. 

O Memory, ope thy mystic door! 

O dream of youth, return! 
And let the lights that gleamed of yore 

Beside this altar burn! 
The past is plain; 'twas Love designed 

E'en Sorrow's iron chain, 
And Mercy's shining thread has twined 

With the dark warp of Pain. 

So be it still, O thou who hast 

That younger bridal blest, 
Till the May-morn of love has passed 

To evening's golden west, 
Come to this later Cana, Lord, 

And, at thy touch divine, 
The water of that earlier board 

To-night shall turn to wine. 



IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 55 

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, 

My curtain's drawn and all is snug; 
Old Puss is in her elbow chair. 

And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream, 

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, 

I could but woo and she was won; 
Myself in blue, the bride in white, 

The ring was placed, the deed was done! 
Away we went in chaise and four, 

As fast as grinning boys could flog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

What loving tete-a-tetes to come! 

What tcte-atetes must still defer! 
When Susan came to live with me, 

Her mother came to live with her! 
With sister Belle she couldn't part, 

But all my ties had leave to jog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll— 

A monkey, too, what work he made! 
The sister introduced a beau — 

My Susan brought a favorite maid. 
She had a tabby of her own — 

A snappish mongrel christened Gog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 



56 AFTER-DINNEIl POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

The monkey bit — the parrot screamed, 

All day the sister strummed and sung; 
The petted maid was such a scold! 

My Susan learns to use her tongue; 
Her mother had such wretched health, 

She sat and croaked, like any frog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

No longer Deary, Duck and Love, 

I soon came down to simple "M"! 
The very servants crossed my wish, 

My Susan let me down to them. 
The poker hardly seemed my own, 

I might as well have been a log — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

My clothes they were the queerest shape! 

Such coats and hats she never met! 
My ways they were the oddest ways! 

My friends were such a vulgar set! 
Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed, 

She could not bear that Mister Blogg — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

At times we had a spar, and then 

Mamma must mingle in the song — 
The sister took a sister's part — 

The maid declared her master wrong — 
The parrot learned to call me "Fool"! 

My life was like a London fog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

My Susan's taste was superfine, 
As proved by bills that had no end; 

I never had a decent coat — 
I never had a coin to spend! 



IMAGINATION AND INFLECTION. 57 

She forced me to resign my club, 
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog — 

What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Each Sunday night we gave a rout 

To fops and flirts, a pretty list; 
And when I tried to steal away 

I found my study full of whist! 
Then, first to come, and last to go, 

There always was a Captain Hogg — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Now was not that an awful dream 

For one who single is and snug — 
With Pussy in the elbow chair, 

And Tray reposing on the rug? — 
If I must totter down the hill 

'Tis safest done without a clog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 



AT PARIS. 



E. BULWER-LYTTON. 



At Paris it was, at the opera there, 

And she looked like a queen in a book that night, 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas Verdi wrote 

The best to me is the Trovatore, 
And Mario could charm with his tenor note 

The souls in Purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft a snow; 
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 
"Non ti scordar di me?" 

There, in our front-row box, we sat 

Together, my bride-betrothed and I — 
My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 

And hers on the stage hard by. 

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years, 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
In the crimson evening weather. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my ring; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 



AN OLD VALENTINE. 



OLIVER ORR. 



Out of the heart of the long ago, 
Faded and yellow, by time, you know, 
But cherished still in shadow and shine 
Cometh to me her valentine: 

The rose is red, 

The violets blue — 
And I dream in the gloaming soft and low 
Of the lass who penned it long years ago. 



IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 59 

A little maid with the bluest eyes, 

That ever danced 'neath winter skies; 

A roguish miss whose love was told 

To the sound of a kiss in a moonlit wold, 

But here is the rest of her rhyming tune, 

Love is sweet 

And so are you. 
And a boy's cheeks flushed at the final line 
Of a rustic sweetheart's valentine. 

Deep in the past, but dimly hid, 
Behind a soft eye's drooping lid, 
Quivers the arrow that Cupid keen, 
Shot at the castle of might-have-been. 
And plainer still grows the couplet true, 

The rose is red, 

The violet's blue — 
And laughter low, which is half divine, 
Riples across her valentine. 

With a cherished thought for the love it told. 
I tenderly open each yellow fold, 
And my heart beats fast as it beat one day, 
In a past that is hallowed and far away. 
I can see the eyes that deep and blue, 

Love is sweet 

And so are you. 
So thought the lass as she penned each line, 
And sealed with a kiss her valentine. 



TO MY PIPE. 



ROBERT R. RINEHART. 



Here's to you! my pretty, precious pet, 
Your slender, graceful figure, don't forget 



60 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Is lovelier by far to me, you bet, 
Than maiden eyes, blonde or brunette. 

Your tender lips meet mine, and ah! 
Sweet inspiration then I draw, 
And lovely languid smoke you know, 
Which carries my tired soul out far 

Beyond this rotten realm of life — 
Beyond this horrid, dreadful strife 
For breath to breath. You are my wife; 
Therefore I'm not with trouble rife. 

I breathe your breath into my soul, 
I let your smoke-waves through me roll: 
You have of me the sole control, 
Whether I sit, run, ride or stroll. 

The world condemns you, pretty pet; 
And says that we are both "well met;" 
But, perfumed darling, pray don't fret, 
Nor cherish one poor weak regret. 

I am your friend — we'll die together, 
We are strung as with a string of leather; 
We'll take no note of men or weather, 
But burn, and smoke and drop together. 



THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 



LAVINIA STODDARD. 



I said to sorrow's awful storm, 
That beat against my breast, 

Rage on! — thou may'st destroy this form, 
And lay it low at rest; 

But still the spirit that now brooks 
Thy tempest, raging high, 



IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 61 

Undaunted on its fury looks, 
With steadfast eye. 

I said to penny's meager train, 

Come on! your threats I brave; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile. 

I said to cold neglect and scorn, 

Pass on! I heed you not; 
Ye may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot; 
Yet still the spirit which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-born smiles. 

I said to friendship's menaced blow, 

Strike deep! my heart shall bear; 
Thou canst but add one bitter woe 

To those already there; 
Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress, 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 

I said to death's uplifted dart, 

Aim sure! oh, why delay? 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 

A weak, reluctant prey; 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away. 



62 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

MUSIC. 



WILLIAM STRODE. 



Oh, lull me, lull, me, charming air! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet! 
Like snow on wood thy fallings are; 
Soft, life a spirit's, are thy feet. 
Grief who need fear 
That hath an ear? 
Down let him lie, 
And slumbering die, 
And change his soul for harmony. 



GAUDEAMUS IGITUE. 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 



Let us live then and be glad 

While young life's before us! 
After youthful pastime had, 
After old age hard and sad, 
Earth will slumber o'er us. 

Where are they who in this world, 
Ere we kept, were keeping? 

Go ye to the gods above; 

Go to hell; inquire thereof: 
They are not; they're sleeping. 

Brief is life, and brevity 

Briefly shall be ended: 
Death comes like a whirlwind strong, 
Bears us with his blast along; 

None shall be defended. 

Live this university, 
Men that learning nourish; 



IMAGINATION AND REFLECTION. 63 

Live each member of the same, 
Long live all that bear its name; 
Let them ever flourish! 

Live the commonwealth also, 

And the men that guide it! 
Live our town in strength and health, 
Founders, patrons, by whose wealth 

We are here provided! 

Live all girls! A health to you, 

Melting maids and beauteous! 
Live the wives and women too, 
Gentle, loving, tender, true, 

Good, industrious, duteous! 

Perish cares that pule and pine! 

Perish envious blamers! 
Die the Devil, thine and mine! 
Die the starch-necked Philistine! 

Scoffers and defamers! 



AN OLD FAK* 



(TO KITTY HER REVERIE.) 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 



It is soiled and quite passe, 
Broken too and out of fashion, 

But it stirs my heart some way, 

As I told it here to-day, 
With a dead year's grace and passion. 
Oh, my pretty fan! 

Precious dream and thrilling strain, 
Rise up from that vanished season; 



*W. B. Conkey & Company, Chicago, Publishers. 



64 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 



Back to heart and nerve and brain 
Sweeps the joy as keen as pain, 
Joy that asks no cause or reason. 
Oh, my dainty fan! 

Hopes that perished in a night 

Gaze at me like spectral faces; 
Grim despair and lost delight 
Sorrow long since gone from sight — 
All are hiding in these laces. 
Oh, my broken fan. 

Let us lay the thing away — 
I am sadder now, and older; 
Fled the ball-room and the play — 
You have had your foolish day, 
And the night and life are colder. 
Exit— little fan! 




PART IV. 

Patriotism* 



A STAK IN" THE WEST. 



ELIZABETH DRAKE COBB. 



Here's to Missouri, 

Bright Gem of the West! 
With her sons gay and gallant, 

The bravest and best; 
With her wide-spreading prairies 

And deep forest dells, 
Her bright, rolling rivers, 

And clear, springing wells. 

We love thee, Missouri! 

Though some may despise 
Thy warm-hearted spirits 

And bright-loving eyes. 
We love thee, Missouri! 

Thy sweet, rustic grace, 
Thy plain, home-spun manners, 

And broad, honest face. 

Thy mountains, Missouri, 

Look fair as the morn; 
Thy hills and thy valleys 

Are covered with corn. 
Thy cattle are grazing 

On a thousand green hills — 
The tall trees are waving 

Above thy cool rills. 

Blithe the birds thy green forests 

Are singing among; 
They make thy homes vocal 

With music and song. 



68 AFTEIl-DINNEll POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

The rainbow hath fallen 
From its home in the showers, 

And it lies on thy praises 
A carpet of showers. 

Thy fields, O, Missouri, 

Are waving with grain, 
Thy orchards are teeming 

Near every green lane. 
Thy proud, rising cities 

Dot over the land; 
Thy school-houses and churches, 

How proudly they stand. 

"While the star-spangled banner, 

In triumph shall wave, 
O'er the land of the free 

And the home of the brave," 
'Twill shelter no prouder, 

No nobler than thee, 
Missouri! Missouri! 

Bright home of the free. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 



When freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there; 
She mingled with the gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And stripped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 



PATRIOTISM. 69 

Majestic monarch of the cloud! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 
Child of the sun! to thee 't is given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blending shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory! 

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high, 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on; 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mo&hings loud 
Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of fiame on midnight's pall, 

Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall sink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 



70 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Each dying wanderer of the sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly 

In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angels' hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
For ever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 



OLD TEKNESSEE. 



A. J. HOLT. 



The land of pure and balmy air; 
Of streams so clear and skies so fair, 
Of mountains grand and fountains free, 
The lovely land of Tennessee. 

The fairest of the fair we see, 
The bravest of the brave have we, 
The freest of the noble free 
In battle-scarred old Tennessee. 

The rarest fruits and fairest flowers, 
And happiest homes on earth are ours 
If heaven below could only be, 
'Twould surely shine in Tennessee. 

Awake my heart with tuneful string 
And of thy lovely country sing, 
From east to west the chorus be 
God bless our dear old Tennessee. 



PATRIOTISM. •! 



Tennessee! Fair Tennessee! 
The land of all the earth for me, 

1 stand upon thy mountains high 
And hold communion with the sky, 
And view the glowing landscape o'er 
Old Tennessee forevermore. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE. 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



What constitutes a state? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed basness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude- 
Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they send the chain; 

These constitute a state; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks; 
Such was this heaven-loved isle, 



72 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Than Lesbos fairer and the Creton shore! 

No more shall freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 



THEODORE O'HARA. 



The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At. dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 



PATRIOTISM. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are past; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was "Victory or Death." 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a mother's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above the mouldering slain. 



73 



74 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that bloody fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, 

On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footsteps here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

"While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 



PATRIOTISM. 75 

ASHES OF GLOKY. 



AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER. 



Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, 

By bleeding martyrs blest, 
And heap the laurels it has won 

Above its place of rest. 

No trumpet note need harshly blare, — 

No drum funereal roll — 
No trailing sables drape the bier 

That frees a dauntless soul. 

It lived with Lee, and decked his brow 

With fate's empyreal palm; 
It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, — 

As spotless and as calm. 

It was outnumbered — not outdone; 
And they shall shuddering tell, 
Who struck the blow, its latest gun 
Flashed ruin as it fell. 

Sleep, shrouded ensign! Not the breeze 

That smote the victor tar 
With death across the heaving seas 

Of fiery Trafalgar. 

Not Arthur's Knights amid the gloom 
Their knightly deeds have starred; 

Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, 
Nor peerless-born Bayard. 

Not all that antique fables feign, 
And orient dreams disgorge; 

Nor yet the silver cross of Spain, 
And Lion of St. George, 

Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still 

Thy crimson glory shines 
Beyond the lengthened shades that fill 

Their proudest kingly lines. 



76 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Sleep! in thine own historic night — 
And be thy blazoned scroll; 

Thy warrior's ban?ier takes its flight 
To i?ieet the warrior's soul. 



ERIN'S FLAG. 



FATHER RYAN. 



Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! 

Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas; 

Lift it out of the dust— let it wave as of yore, 

When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore 

That never! no! never, while God gave them life, 

And thev had an arm and a sword for the strife, 

That never! no! never, that Banner should yield 

As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield; 

While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, 

And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. 

Lift it up! wave it high! — 'tis as bright as of old! 

Not a stain on its Green, not a blot on its gold, 

Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years 

Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with tears! 

Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, 

And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. 

Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, 

There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky. 

'Tis Sunburst resplendent — far, flashing on high! 

Erin's dark night is waning; her dawn is nigh! 

Lift it up! life it up; the old Banner of Green! 
The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; 
What! — though the Tyrant has trampled it down, 
Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? 



PATRIOTISM. 77 

What! — though for ages it droops in the dust, 
Shall it droop thus forever? — no! no! God is just! 
Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, 
Let him tear the Green Flag — we will snatch its last shred; 
And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, 
And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead. 

And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed — 
And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread — 
And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, 
Died down in the ditches — wild-howling for bread. 
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled; 
And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, 
That we'll battle the Britton through danger and dread; 
That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 
'Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — 
That we'll lift up the Green, and we'll tear down the Red. 

Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home: 
Full long has its lot been to wander and roam; 
It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, 
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; 
Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, 
It has flitted and fled — but it never shall rest, 
'Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, 
And speeds to the shores of its old home again, 
Where its fetterless folds, o'er each mountain and plain, 
Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. 

Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar — 
That Banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war; 
Lay your hands on its folds; lift your gaze to the sky, 
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, 
And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth, 
To join in the march to the land of their birth; 
And wherever the exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, 
Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, 
They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, 
They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home"! 



78 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

OUK STATE. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



The south-land boasts its teeming cane, 
The prairied west its heavy grain, 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold! 

Rough, bleak and hard, our little state 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone, 
Her only mines are ice and stone! 

From autumn frost to April rain, 
Too long her winter woods complain; 
From budding flower to falling leaf, 
Her summer time is all too brief. 

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands; 
And what her rugged soil denies 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the commonwealth 

Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; 

And more to her than gold or grain 

The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock, 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; 
And still maintains, with milder laws, 
And clearer light, the good old cause! 

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, 

While near her school the church-spire stands; 

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

While near her church-spire stands the school. 



^£1 

PART V. 

Vers de Societe, 



THE DEAREST OF ALL. 



THE BENEDICT. 



Her flattery is the sweetest 

Woman wit has e'er devised, 
And her compliments the neatest 

And most cunningly disguised; 
She makes you think you're clever, 

Though you're sure your brain is slow, 
And no flirt can equal ever 

The sweet girl who wants to know. 

She asks for your opinion 

On a thousand different things, 
And you mark not her dominion 

Till she's fairly dipped your wings; 
She makes you air your knowledge, 

Till you feel that you can show 
More learning than a college, 

Does the girl who wants to know. 

She draws you out on fiction, 

Music, poetry and art; 
On the charms of Browning's diction, 

On religion, on Delsarte; 
And shows your teachings suit her 

Till away to church you go 
To become the lifelong tutor 

Of the girl who wants to know. 



82 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

LOVE'S LOGIC. 



CHAMBERS JOURNAL. 



HER RESPECTABLE PAPA'S. 

'My dear, be sensible! Upon my word 
This— for a woman even — is absurd; 
Kis income's not a hundred pounds, I know. 
He's not worth loving." — "But I love him so." 

HER MOTHER'S. 

'You silly child, he is well made and tall; 
But looks are far from being all in all. 
His social standing's low, his family's low. 
He's not worth loving." — "And I love him so." 

HER ETERNAL FRIEND'S. , 

'Is that he picking up the fallen fan? 
My dear! he's such an awkward, ugly man! 
You must be certain, pet, to answer 'No.' 
He's not worth loving." — "And I love him so." 

HER BROTHER'S. 

'By Jove! were I girl — through horrid hap — 
I wouldn't have a milk-and-water chap. 
The man has not a single spark of 'go.' 
He's not worth loving." — "Yet I love him so." 

HER OWN. 

'And were he everything to which I've listened: 
Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn't), 
Poor, low-born, and destitute of 'go,' 
He is worth loving, for I love him so." 



VERS DE 80CIETE. 

THE YOTOs T G MAN WAITED. 



J. EDMUND V. COOKE. 



In the room below the young man sat, 
With an anxious face and a white cravat, 
With a throbbing heart and a silken hat, 
And various other things like that, 

Which he had accumulated. 
And the maid of his heart was up above, 
Surrounded by hat and gown and glove 
And some thousand things that women love 
But no man knows the names thereof. 

And the young man sat and waited. 

You will scarce believe the things I tell, 
But the truth thereof I know full well, 

Though how may not be stated, 
But I swear to you that the maiden took 
A sort of a half-bred, thin stove hook 
And heated it well in the gaslight there 
And thrust it into her head of hair. 
Then she took a something off the bed 
And hooked it into her hair, or head 
Then she piled it high and piled it higher 
And drove it home with staples of wire. 

And the young man anxiously — waited. 

Then she took a thing she called a puff, 
And some very peculiar, whitish stuff, 
And, using about a half a peck, 
She spread it over her face and neck. 

(Deceit was a thing she hated.) 
She looked as fair as the purest flower, 
Or a pound of lard, or a sack of flour, 

And the young man wearily — waited. 



84 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Then she took a garment of awful shape, 
And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape, 
But it seemed like a piece of ancient mail, 
Or an instrument from a Russian jail; 
And then with a fearful groan and gasp, 
She squeezed herself in its deadly clasp. 

So fair and yet so fated. 
And then with a move like I don't know what, 
She tied it on with a double knot. 

And the young man woefully — waited. 

Then she put on a dozen different things, 
A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings, 
Till she strongly resembled a notion store; 
Then taking some seventeen pins or more, 
She thrust them into her ruby lips, 
Then stuck them around from neck to hips, 

And never once hesitated. 
And the maiden didn't know perhaps 
That the man below had had seven naps, 

And that now he sleepily — waited. 

And then before she could take her leave, 
She had to pump up her monstrous sleeve; 
Then a little dab here, and a wee pat there, 
And a touch or two to her hindmost hair; 
Then around the room with the utmost care 

She thoughtfully circulated. 
Then she seized her gloves and a chamois skin, 
Some breath perfume and a long stick-pin, 
A bonbon box and a cloak and some 
Eau de cologne and chewing gum, 
Her opera-glass and a sealskin muff, 
A fan and a heap of other stuff; 
Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke, 
Something about the maiden broke, 
So she scurried back to the winding stair, 
And the young man looked in wild despair; 

And then he — evaporated. 



VEKS DE SOCIETE. 87 

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then gazed I upon her 

sweetly, 
For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly. 

"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure, 

On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell or my Glaisher! 

"Tell me I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that I may know. 
Is it up the highest Andes? down a terrible volcano?" 

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes; 
Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes." 

PART II. 

"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister 

Tupper, 
Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?" 

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that 

honour; 
And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon 

her. 

"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg you to inform us;" 
But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage 
enormous. 

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anight 

to me. 
And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me: — 

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but a wise man dread a bandit." 
Which, of course, was very clever; but I did not understand it. 

Seven weary years I wandered, Patagonia, China, Norway, 
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastry-cook his doorway. 

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle, 
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock-turtle. 

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was 

rosy, 
And his little wife was pretty and particularly cozy. 



88 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with 

laughter hearty — 
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party. 

And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? 
Is it purity of conscience, or you one-and-seven sherry?" 

But he answered, "I'm the happiest young person of my era — 
If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing 'Tira! lira!' 

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the 

jellies; 
Then I make a sugar bird cage, which upon a table swell is; 

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers; 
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the 
crackers — " 

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound 

me!" 
Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me. 

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around 

him— 
And I rushed away exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found 

him!" 

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me telling, 
"'Tira! lira!' stop him! stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a 
shilling!" 

But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited 
And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated! 



THE LITTLE WIDOW. 



'FRISCO TOWN TALK. 



She is cunning, sometimes witty; 

Free and easy, but not bold; 
Like an apple, ripe and mellow — 

Not too young and not too old; 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 

Half inviting, half repellant; 

Now advancing and now shy; 
There is mischief in her laughter, 

There is danger in her eye. 

She has studied human nature; 

She is schooled in every art; 
She has taken her diploma 

As the mistress of the heart! 
She can tell the very moment 

When to sigh and when to smile, 
Oh, a maid is sometimes charming 

But a widow all the while. 

Ah, "old fossils," nearly fifty, 

Who are plotting, deep and wise; 
Ye "Adonises," of twenty 

With the love-light in your eyes! 
You may practice all the lessons 

Taught by Cupid since the fall, 
But I know a little widow 

Who can win and fool you all. 



TO A SOCIETY WOMAN. 



JAMES GARDNER. 



You call yourself queen of the fashion, 
Your kingdom is Vanity Fair; 

Your court is the gay crowded ball-room, 
Your throne is the tete-a-tete chair. 

The mirror is your sagest adviser; 

Your subjects are puppets of style; 
Your laws are your whims and caprices, 

Your creed, the religion of guile. 

The squadrons composing your army 
Weren't fashioned to fight and to kill; 



90 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Their battlefields only a parlor, 
Their tactics the waltz and quadrille. 

To love in your kingdom is treason, 
A crime, lo! the darkest in hue; 

And sentiment dies on the scaffold, 
If once he but dares to be true. 

To feel is a sin without pardon, 
To blush is a habit unknown; 

And poverty's punished with exile, 
'Tis a fault you never condone. 

And such are your manners and customs, 

No emigrant ever so bold 
Would venture to enter your regions 

Unarmed with a passport of gold. 



THE CONTEMPORARY SUITOR. 



HARPER'S. 



Time was that Strephon, when he found 

A Chloe to his mind, 
Sought not how Dun reported her, 
Nor lagged while Time distorted her, 
But rushed right in and courted her, 

As nature had designed. 

It's different now; my Lucy, there, 

How gladly would I woo! 
But shapes of such monstrosity 
Confront with such ferocity 
My impecuniosity, 

What is a man to do? 

Strephon and Chloe had a hut, 

And, though, about the door, 
The wolf might raise his serenade. 
No latter-day menagerie bayed 
Its warning grim to man and maid: 
"Wed not if ye are poor!" 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 91 

But I, what monsters must I face 

When I for Lucy sue! 
What landlords roaring for their rent! 
What troops of duns by grocers sent! 
And shapes of want and discontent 

Calamitous to view! 

Stay, Lucy, stay! I'm bold and stout, 

I'll rout the grisly crew. 
Be constant, love! and hope and wait, 
And by the time you're thirty-eight 
I may, perhaps, have conquered Fate, 
And when I've won the right to mate, 
If you're not too much out of date, 

I'll surely mate with you! 



BAKGALNS IN HEAETS. 



MAUD HOSFORD. IN LIFE. 



For sale: A very fine line of hearts 

At prices far below cost, 
A circumstance which affords you a chance 

To replace the one you have lost. 

Hearts that are tender; hearts that are brave; 

One that's been worn on a sleeve 
Is marked down so low it surely must go, 

Though it is somewhat soiled, you perceive. 

Broken hearts, too, that have been "restored;' 

One that has only a crack; 
And hearts that are set on a coronet, 

For lovers of bric-a-brac. 

Sad hearts, glad hearts, hearts of gold, 

Hearts that gold only can buy; 
And a heart so true, it will just suit you 

If you'll only take it to try. 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

HEE CHOICE. 



LIFE. 



Her face was like a missaled saint's 
Against the gold and sunset red; 

And aureole seemed her shining hair 
And eve's first star gleamed o'er her head. 

On that far height we stood alone, 
And as her pure eyes heavenward dreamed, 

Between a woman and a man 
How measureless the distance seemed! 

What message was she sending to 
The heavenly host that soars and sings? 

I spoke the thought that pierced my heart, 
"What would you do if you had wings?" 

Ah, vain my anxious doubts and fears — 

No angel, but a woman true! 
"If I had wings," she softly said, 

"I'd fold them close and stay with you." 



LEX TALIONIS. 



LIFE. 



He offered me his heart and hand 
Whereat I laughed and said him nay; 

But found too late that when he went, 
He took my happiness away. 

And so I wrote a little note; 

"Dear Jack," it asked, with sweet design, 
"In love is't fair to change one's mind?" 

Said he, "It is, and I've changed mine." 



VERS DE S0CIETE. 

THE NEW CUPID. 



LONDON WORLD. 



He gazed at me without surprise, 

Quite calmly and collectedly, 
I scarcely could believe my eyes, 

We met so unexpectedly. 
Yet he was beyond a doubt, 

A visible reality, 
For little wings were sprouting out 

Not granted to mortality. 

But where the arrows, where the bow, 

Employed with such dexterity? 
The quiver, too? — I did not know, 

And asked in all sincerity. 
A frown appeared upon his brow, 

He answered me with chilliness, 
"They're antequated weapons now, 

To use them would be silliness. 

"For mortals grow, from year to year, 

More mighty intellectual: 
I have some little missiles here 

That always prove effectual. 
I sling them forth— they're sterling gold; 

A few may miss conceivably, 
But any heart that's hard or cold 

They damage irretrievably." 

"By force of gold! Oh, Cupid, think 

The foul debasing force it is! 
Is this your boast?" He gave a wink, 

And answered, "Why of course it is; 
I saw my chance when Cupid died, 

And seized it with avidity." 
"Then who on earth are you?" I cried, 

He smiled and said "Cupiditj r ." 



94 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 



JOHN LYL.YE. 



Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: 

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 

His mother's dove, and team of sparrows; 

Loses them, too; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) 

With these, the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple on his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win: 

At last he set her both his eyes — 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love! has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 



REASON, FOLLY AND BEAUTY. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Reason, and Folly, and Beauty, they say, 
Went on a party of pleasure one day: 

Folly play'd 

Around the maid, 
The bells of his cap rang merrily out; 

While Reason took 

To his sermon-book — 
O! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, 
Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. 

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page, 
Till Folly said, 
Look here sweet maid!" — 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 95 

The sight of his cap brought her back to herself, 

While Reason read 

His leaves of lead, 
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! 
No, — no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! 

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; 
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap — 

"There it is/' 

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" 
(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) 

"Under the sun 

There's no such fun, 
As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, 
Reason with my cap and bell? on his head!" 

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, 
That Beauty now liked him still less than before: 

While Folly took 

Old Reason's book, 
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton, 

That Beauty vow'd 

(Tho' not aloud) 
She liked him still better in that than his own, 
Yes, — liked him still better in that than his own. 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 



W. MACKWORTH PRAED. 



Years — years ago — ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise and witty; 
Ere I done with writing themes, 

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; 
Years, years ago, while all my joys 

Were in my fowling-piece and filly: 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 



96 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

I saw her at a country ball; 

There when the sound of lute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall, 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that sets young hearts romancing: 
She was our queen, our rose, our star; 

And when she danced— oh, heaven, her dancing! 

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender, 
Her eyes were full of liquid light; 

I never saw a waist so slender 
Her every look, her every smile, 

Shot right and left a score of arrows; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 

I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 

She talk'd of politics and prayers; 

Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; 
Of daggers or of dancing bears, 

Of battles or the last new bonnets; 
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it mattered not a title, 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmured Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. 
My mother laughed; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling; 
My father frown'd; but how should gout 

Find any happiness in kneeling? 

She was the daughter of a dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
She had one brother just thirteen, 

Whose color was extremely hectic; 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 

Her grandmother, for many a year, 
Had fed the parish with her bounty; 

Her second cousin was a peer, 
The lord-lieutenant of the county. 

But titles and the three per cents, 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 

Oh! what are they to love's sensations? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, 

Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; 
He cares as little for the stocks, 

As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, 
Grew lovlier from her pencil's shading; 

She botanized; I envied each 
Young blossom in her boudoir fading; 

She warbled Handel; it was grand- 
She made the Catalina jealous; 

She touch'd the organ; I could stand 
For hours and hours and blow the bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well fill'd with all an album's glories; 
Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 

Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, 

Fierce odes to famine, and to slaughter; 
And autographs of Prince Laboo, 

And recipes of elder water. 

And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored, 

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted. 
Her poodle dog was quite adored, 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolish'd; 
She frown'd, and every look was sad, 

As if the opera were demolish'd. 



97 



98 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

She smil'd on many just for fun— 

I knew that there was nothing in it; 
I was the first the only one 

Her heart thought of for a minute; 
I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely molded; 
She wrote a charming hand, and oh! 

How sweetly all her notes were folded! 

Our love was like most other loves— 

A little glow, a little shiver; 
A rosebud and a pair of gloves, 

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vows — and then we parted. 

We parted— months and years rolled by; 

We met again four summers after; 
Our parting was all sob and sigh — 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; 
For in my heart's most secret cell, 

There had been many other lodgers; 
And she was not the ball-room belle, 

But only Mrs.— Something— Rogers. 



AT THE DANCE. 



ROBERT R. RINEHART. 



A winding stair, 

A dreamy air, 
A girl whose voice is mellow; 

A murmured sigh, 

A low reply — 
A blush — so far all's well, oh! 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 99 

A foolish jest, 

A soft caress, 
A promise and a flower; 

A captured fan, 

A prisoned hand — 
Thus man asserts his power. 

The music starts, 

The couple parts, 
So ends a passing pleasure; 

By man repeated, 

By maiden greeted, 
As part of every measure. 

Again the stair, 

Once more the air, 
Same girl whose voice is mellow; 

But if you took 

Another look 
You'd see a different fellow. 



TAKE YOUR TIME. 



HARRY ROMAINE. 



A rule for kissing, in easy rhyme, 
Is "Not to hurry, but take your time," 
For many a kiss has gone to waste, 
Spoiled by too impetuous haste. 

When you find her lips, then kiss her there; 

Not on the edge of her golden hair. 

A kiss of artistic merit should 

Be placed to effect the greatest good. 

The nervous tyro contrives to miss 
The charm of the well directed kiss; 
But constant practice will serve your turn, 
So keep on kissing until you learn. 



100 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

MY FAMILIAR* 



JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 



Again I hear that creaking step! 

He's rapping at the door! 
Too well I know the boding sound 

That ushers in a bore. 
I do not tremble when I meet 

The stoutest of my foes, 
But Heaven defend me from the friend 

Who comes — but never goes! 

He drops into my easy chair, 

And asks about the news; 
He peers into my manuscript, 

And gives his candid views; 
He tells me where he likes the line, 

And where he's forced to grieve; 
He takes the strangest liberties, 

But never takes his leave! 

He reads my daily paper through 

Before I've seen a word; 
He scans the lyric (that I wrote), 

And thinks it quite absurd; 
He calmly smokes my last cigar, 

And coolly asks for more; 
He opens everything he sees, 
Except the entry door! 

He talks about his fragile health, 

And tells me of the pains 
He suffers from a score of ills, 

Of which he ne'er complains; 
And how he struggled once with death 

To keep the fiend at bay; 
On themes like these away he goes — 

But never goes away. 



♦Copyright, John Godfrey Saxe; Publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & 
Company. 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 101 

He tells me of the carping words 

Some shallow critic wrote; 
And every precious paragraph 

Familiarly can quote; 
He thinks the writer did me wrong; 

He'd like to run him through! 
He says a thousand pleasant things — 

But never says. "Adieu!" 

Whene'er he comes — that dreadful man — 

Disguise it as I may, 
I know that like a summer rain, 

He'll last throughout the day. 
In vain I speak of urgent tasks; 

In vain I scowl and pout; 
A frown is no extinguisher — 

It does not put him out! 

I mean to take the knocker off, 

Put crape upon the door, 
Or hint to John that I am gone 

To stay a month or more. 
I do not tremble when I meet 

The stoutest of my foes, 
But Heaven defend me from the friend 

Who never, never goes! 



BLASE.* 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 



The world has outlived all its passion, 
Its men are inane and blase, 

Its women mere puppets of fashion; 
Life now is a comedy play. 

Our Abelard sighs for a season, 
Then yields with decorum to fate. 



*W. B. Conkey & Company, Chicago, Publishers. 



102 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Our Heloise listens to reason, 
And seeks a new mate. 

Our Romeo's flippant emotion 

Grows pale as the summer grows old; 
Our Juliet proves her devotion 

By clasping— a cup filled with gold. 
Vain Anthony boasts of his favors 

From fair Cleopatra the frail, 
And the death of the sorceress savors 

Less of asps than of ale. 

With the march of bold civilization, 

Great loves and great faiths are down-trod, 
They belonged to an era and nation 

All fresh with the imprint of God. 
High culture emasculates feeling, 

The over-taught brains robs the heart, 
And the shrine now where mortals are kneeling 

Is a commonplace mart. 

Our effeminate fathers and brothers 

Keep carefully out of life's storm, 
From the ladylike minds of our mothers 

We are taught that to feel is "bad form.' 
Our worshippers now and our lovers 

Are calmly devout with their brains, 
And we laugh at the man who discovers 

Warm blood in his veins. 

But you, twin souls, passion-mated, 
Who love as the gods loved of old, 

What blundering destiny fated 

Your lives to be cast in this mold? 

Like a lurid volcanic upheaval, 
In pastures prosaic and gray, 

You seem with your fervors primeval, 
Among us to-day. 

You dropped from some planet of splendor, 
Perhaps as it circled afar, 



VERS DE SOCIETE. 

And your constancy, swerveless and tender, 
You learned from the course of that star. 

Fly back to its bosom, I warn you— 
As back to the ark flew the dove— 

The minions of earth will but scorn you, 
Because you can love. 



103 



LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 



N. P. WILLIS. 



They may talk of love in a cottage, 

And bowers of trellised vine — 
Of nature bewitching simple, 

And milkmaids half divine; 
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 

In the shade of a spreading tree, 
And a walk in the fields at morning, 

By the side of a footstep free! 

But give me a sly flirtation 

By the light of a chandelier— 
With music to play in the pauses, 

And nobody very near: 
Or a seat on a silken sofa, 

With a glass of pure old wine, 
And mamma too blind to discover 

The small white hand in mine. 

Your love in a cottage is hungry, 

Your vine is a nest for flies — 
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, 

And simplicity talks of pies! 
You lie down in your shady slumber 

And wake with a bug in your ear, 
And your damsel that walks in the morning 

Is shod like a mountaineer. 



104 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

True love is at home on a carpet, 

And mightily likes his ease— 
And true love has an eye for a dinner, 

And starves beneath shady trees. 
His wing is the fan of a lady, 

His foot's an invisable thing, 
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel, 

And shot from a silver string. 



WHERE HEAVEN IS. 



JOSEPH WHELESS. 



In this proud age, when Science wings 
Its flight where Star to Star e'er sings, 
Yet know not e'en the most profound 
Where is Heaven found? 

While vainly thus intent the Wise, 
Pursue th' eternal light's mysterious ray, 
I that know nought know more than they, 

Heaven's in thy eyes! 



INDECISION. 



Do I love her? 
Dimpling red lips at me pouting, 
Dimpling shoulders at me flouting; 

No, I dont! 

Do I love her? 
Prisoned in those crystal eyes 
Purity forever lies; 

Yes, I do! 



VERS DK SOCIETE. 

Do I love her? 
Little wild and wilful fiction, 
Teasing, torturing contradiction; 

No, I don't! 

Do I love her? 
With kind acts and sweet words she 
Aids and comforts poverty; 

Yes, I do! 

Do I love her? 
Quick she puts her cuirass on, 
Stabs with laughter, stings with scorn; 

No, I don't! 

Do I love her? 
No! Then to my arms she flies, 
Filling me with glad surprise; 

Ah, yes, I do! 



105 




PART VI. 

Comedy and Humor, 



OUR AMATEUR THEATRICALS. 



ARGONAUT. 



We did our best to make the cast 

Resplendent with fair faces; 
The tenor's blonde moustache stuck fast 

And black beards choked the lasses; 
The actresses were pretty maids, 

Quite partial to caresses, 
The programmes blazed with varied shades, 

The audience with dresses. 

The prompter played the leading part 

And pounded the piano; 
'Twas he who won the Prince's heart 

Instead of the Soprano! 
Duke Harold somehow lost his head 

And flirted with his mother, 
Then stabbed the servant maid instead 

Of murdering her brother. 

The bridal feast was laid in skies, 

The alto ordered chowder! 
The stage directors burned the flies, 

"With blue and yellow powder. 
The audience escaped dismayed, 

Exceedingly distressful — 
But afterward, the critics said 

'Twas wonderously successful! 



110 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

WHY DON'T THE MEN PEOPOSE? 



THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. 



Why don't the men propose, mamma, 

Why don't the men propose? 
Each seems just coming to the point, 

And then away he goes! 
It is no fault of yours, mamma, 

That ev'rybody knows; 
You fete the finest men in town, 

Yet, oh, they won't propose! 

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma., 

To make a proper match, 
For coronets and eldest sons 

I'm ever on the watch, 
I've hopes when some distingue beau 

A glance upon me throws; 
But though he'll dance, and smile and flirt, 

Alas, he won't propose. 

And what is to be done, mamma? 

Oh, what is to be done? 
I really have no time to lose, 

For I am thirty-one. 
At balls I am too often left 

Where spinsters sit in rows; 
Why won't the men propose, mamma? 

Why won't the men propose? 



PLAINT OE THE PESSIMIST. 



BEN KING. 



Nothing to do but work, 
Nothing to eat but food, 

Nothing to wear but clothes, 
To keep one from being nude. 



COMEDY AND HUMOR. 

Nothing to breathe hut air, 

Quick as a flash it is gone, 
Nowhere to fall hut off, 

Nowhere to stand but on. 

Nothing to comb but hair, 

No where to sleep but bed, 
Nothing to weep but tears, 

No one to bury but dead. 

Nothing to sing but songs, 

Ah! Well! Alas and alack! 
No where to go but out, 

No where to come but back. 

Nothing to see but sights, 
Nothing to quench but thirst, 

Nothing to have but what we have got; 
Thus through life we're cursed. 

Nothing to read but words, 

Nothing to cast but votes, 
Nothing to hear but sounds, 

Nothing to sail but boats. 

Nothing to strike but a gait, 
Everything moves that goes, 

Nothing at all but common sense, 
Can ever withstand these woes. 



Ill 



THE RETORT. 



GEORGE P. MORRIS. 



Old Nick, who taught the village school, 
Wedded a maid of homespun habit; 

He was stubborn as a mule, 
She was playful as a rabbit. 



112 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Poor Jane had scarce became a wife, 
Before her husband sought to make her 

The pink of country-polished life, 
And prim and formal as a Quaker. 

One day the tutor went abroad, 
And simple Jenny sadly missed him; 

When he returned, behind her lord 
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him! 

The husband's anger rose! — and red 
And white his face alternate grew! 

"Less freedom, ma'am!" — Jane sighed and said, 
"Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you!" 



THE EDITOK'S WOOING. 



ROBERT H. NEWELL. 



We love thee, Ann Maria Smith, 

And in thy condescension 
We see a future full of joys 

Too numerous to mention. 

There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance, 

That by thy love's coercion 
Has reached our melting heart of hearts, 

And asked for one insertion. 

With joy we feel the blissful smart; 

And e'er our passion ranges, 
We freely place thy love upon 

The list of our exchanges. 

There's music in thy lowest tone, 

And silver in thy laughter: 
And truth — but we will give the full 

Particulars hereafter. 



COMEDY AND HUMOR. 113 

Oh, we could tell thee of our plans 

All obstacles to scatter; 
But we are full just now, and have 

A press of other matter. 

Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths, 

Without more hesitation: 
The very thought doth give our blood 

A larger circulation. 



A POLKA LYRIC. 



BARCLAY PHILIPS. 



Qui nunc dancere vult modo, 

Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! 
Discere debet — ought to know, 
Kickere floor cum heel and toe, 
One, two, three, 
Hop with me 
Whirlgig, twirlgig, rapide. 

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, 

Will you join the polka, miss? 
Liberius — most willingly, 
Sic agimus — then let us try: 
Nunc vide, 
Skip with me, 
Whirlabout, roundabout, celere. 

Turn laeva cito, turn dextra, 

First to the left and then t'other way; 
Aspice retro in vultu, 
You look at her and she looks at you. 
Das Palmam 
Change hands, ma'am; 
Celere — run away, just in sham. 



114 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

LINES TO BESSY. 



PUNCH. 



My head is like a title-deed, 

Or abstract of the same: 
Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read 

Thine own long-cherish'd name. 

Against thee I my suit have brought, 

I am thy plaintiff lover, 
And for the heart that thou hast caught, 

An action lies — of trover. 

Alas, upon me every day 
The heaviest costs you levy: 

Oh, give me back my heart — but nay! 
I feel I can't replevy. 

I love thee with my latest breath, 

Alas, I cannot you shun, 
Till the hard hand of sheriff death 

Takes me in execution. 

Say, Bessy dearest, if you will 

Accept me as a lover? 
Must true affection file a bill 

The secret to discover? 

Is it my income's small amount 

That leads to hesitation? 
Refer the question of account 

To Cupid's arbitration. 



THE SATED ONE. 



It may not be — go, maidens, go 
Nor tempt me to the mistletoe; 



COMEDY AND HUMOR. 115 

I once could dance beneath its bow, 
But must not, will not, can not, now! 

A weight— a load within I bear; 

It is not madness or despair; 
But I require to be at rest, 

So that my burden may — digest! 



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 



PUNCH. 



I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me — 

Our mutual flame is like th' afiinity 

That doth exist between two simple bodies: 

I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow 

Shall shortly make us one. That unity 

Is, after all, but metaphysical. 

O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, 

A living acid; thou an alkali 

Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, 

We both might coalesce into one salt, 

One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou 

Were Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; 

We would unite to form an olefiant gas, 

Or common coal, or naphtha — would to heaven 

That I were Phosphorus, and thou were Lime! 

And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. 

I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, 

So that thou might be Soda. In that case 

We should be Glauber's Salt. Were thou Magnesia 

Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom. 

Could'st thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, 

Our happy union should that compound form 

Nitrate of Potash — otherwise Saltpeter. 



116 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

And thus our several natures sweetly blent, 

We'd live and love together, until death 

Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, 

Leaving our souls to all eternity 

Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs 

And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we 

Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? 

We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, 

When Johnson shall with, beauteous Briggs combine. 



COUKTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. 



PUNCH. 



COURTSHIP. 

Fairest of Earth! if thou wilt hear my vow, 

Lo! at thy feet I swear to love the ever; 
And by this kiss upon thy radiant brow, 

Promise affection which no time shall sever; 
And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now, 
To be extinguished — never, dearest, never! 
Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign? 
Catherine! my own sweet Kate! will thou be mine? 

Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair — 

Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring; 
And we will live in solitude, nor care 

For aught save for each other. We will fling 
Away all sorrow — Eden shall be there! 
And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king! 
Still coy, and still reluctant? Sweetheart say, 
When shall we monarchs be? and which the day? 

MATRIMONY. 

Now Mrs. Pringle, once for all, I say 

I will not such extravagance allow! 
Bills upon bills, and larger every day, 

Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow! 



COMEDY AND HUMOR. 117 

Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash — nay, nay, 
Tears, Mrs. Pringle, will not gull me now — 
I say I won't allow ten pounds a week; 
I can't afford it; madam, do not speak! 

In wedding you I thought I had a treasure; 

I find myself most miserably mistaken! 
You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure: 

In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken. 
Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure; 
Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken! 
I seek retirement, and I find — a riot; 
Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet! 



COMIC MISERIES.* 



JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 



My dear young friend, whose shining wit, 

Sets all the room a-blaze, 
Don't think yourself "a happy dog," 

For all your merry ways; 
But learn to wear a sober phiz; 

Be stupid if you can; 
It's such a very serious thing 

To be a funny man! 

You're at an evening party, with 

A group of pleasant folk — 
You venture quietly to crack 

The least of little jokes— 
A lady doesn't catch the point, 

And begs you to explain — 
Alas for one that drops a jest 

And takes it up again! 



•Copyright, John Godfrey Saxe. Publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & 
Company. 



118 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

You're talking deep philosophy 

With very special force, 
To edify a clergyman 

With suitable discourse — 
You think you've got him — when he calls 

A friend across the way, 
And begs you'll say that funny thing 

You said the other day! 

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot 

Into a neighbor's ears, 
Who likes to give you credit for 

The clever thing he hears; 
And so he hawks your jest about, 

The old, authenic one, 
Just breaking off the point of it, 

And leaving out the pun! 

By sudden change in politics, 

Or sadder change in Polly, 
You lose your love or loaves, and fall 

A prey to melancholy; 
While everybody marvels why 

Your mirth is under ban — 
They think your very grief "a joke" — 

You're such a funny man! 

You follow up a stylish card 
That bids you come and dine, 

And bring along your freshest wit 
(To pay for musty wine) ; 

You're looking very dismal, when 
My lady bounces in, 

And wonders what you're thinking of, 
And why you don't begin! 

You're telling to a knot of friends 

A fancy tale of woes 
That cloud your matrimonial sky, 

And banish all repose — 



COMEDY AND HUMOR. 



119 



A solemn lady overhears 

The story of your strife, 
And tells the town the pleasant news: — 

You quarrel with your wife. 

My dear young friend, whose shining wit 

Sets all the room a-blaze, 
Don't think yourself "a happy dog," 

For all your merry ways; 
But learn to wear a sober phiz, 

Be stupid of you can; 
It's such a very serious thing 

To be a funny man! 




N ^SJSS-r / 



PART VII. 

Toasts and Convivial Songs, 



-7M^ 



BRING THE FLASK, THE MUSIC BRING. 



ISAAC BICKERSTAFP. 



Come, now, all ye social powers, 

Shed your influence o'er us; 
Crown with joy the present hours, 

Enliven those before us. 
Bring the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing, 

And cast dull Care behind us. 

Love, thy godhead we adore, 

Source of generous passion; 
But will ne'er bow down before 

Those idols, wealth and fashion. 
Bring the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing, 

And cast dull Care behind us. 

Friendship, with thy smile divine, 

Brighten all our features, 
What but friendship, love and wine, 

Can make us happy creatures? 
Bring the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing, 

And cast dull Care behind us. 



124 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Why the deuce should we be sad, 

While on earth we moulder, 
Grave or gay, or wise or mad, 

We every day grow older. 
Bring the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing, 

And cast dull Care behind us. 

Then, since time will steal away, 

Spite of all our sorrow, 
Heighten every joy to-day, 

Never mind to-morrow. 
Bring the flask, the music bring — 

Joy shall quickly find us; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing, 

And cast dull Care behind us. 



TWO MEN I KNOW. 



I know a duke; well, let him pass — 
I may not call his grace an ass; 
Though if I did I'd do no wrong, 
Save to the asses and my song. 

This duke is neither wise nor good; 
He gambles, drinks, scorns womanhood, 
And at the age of twenty-four 
Was worn and battered as threescore. 

I knew a waiter in Pall Mall 

Who works, and waits, and reasons well; 

Is gentle, courteous, and refined, 

And has a magnet in his mind. 

What is it makes his graceless grace 
So like a jockey out of place? 
What makes the waiter — tell who can — 
So very like a gentleman? 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 125 

Perhaps their mothers — God is great! — 
Perhaps 'tis accident, or fate! 
Perhaps because — hold not my pen — 
We can breed horses but not men. 



SONG. 



ALEXANDER BROME. 



I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink, 

This many and many year; 
And these three are plagues, enough one would think, 

For one poor mortal to bear. 
'Twas drink made me fall into love, 

And love made me fall into debt; 
And though I have struggled and struggled and strove, 

I cannot get out of them yet. 

There's nothing but money can cure me, 
And rid me of all my pain; 
'Twill pay all my debts, 
And remove all my lets; 
And my mistress that cannot endure me, 
Will love me, and love me again. 



TO HIS FKIEND THAT HAD VOWED 
SMALL-BEER. 



ALEXANDER BROME. 



Leave off, fond hermit, leave thy vow, 

And fall again to drinking; 
That beauty that won't sack allow, 

Is hardly worth thy thinking. 
Dry love or small can never hold, 
And, without Bacchus, Venus soon grows cold. 



126 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Dost think by turning anchorite, 

Or a dull small-beer sinner, 
Thy cold embraces can invite, 

Or sprightless courtship win her? 
No, 'tis Canary that inspires, 
'Tis sack, like oil, gives flame to am'rous fires. 

This makes thee chant thy mistress' name, 
And to the Heavens to raise her; 

And range this universal frame 
For epithets to praise her. 

Low liquors render brains unwitty, 

And ne'er provoke to love, but move to pity. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee; 

I'll come nae mair to thy bower door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
That I can live without thee: 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 
How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 127 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it: 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them: 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



TO A LADY. 



WITH A PRESENT OP A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Fair Empress of the Poet's soul 

And Queen of Poetesses; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

"The whole of human kind!" 

"To those who love us!" — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love; 
Lest we love those who love not us! 

A third — "to thee and me, Love!" 



128 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

JOHN BAKLEYCOBK 



ROBERT BURNS. 



There was three Kings into the east, 
Three Kings both great and high, 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sickened more and more, 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

To shew their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp 

And cut him by the knee; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 129 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crushed him between two stones. 

And they hae t'en his very heart's blood, 

And drank it round and round; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise; 

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 

'Twill heighten all his joy: 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland! 



A TOAST. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost: 



130 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND*SENTIMENT. 

That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe-er would betray him, on high may he swing! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution, 
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and Tyranny damn'd; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial! 



A BOTTLE AlsTD FKIEND. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Here's a bottle and an honest friend! 

What wad ye wish for ma'er, man? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man: — 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 



THE TOAST. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast, a toast divine; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 131 

LINES TO MR. MOORE. 



LORD BYRON. 



My boat is on the shore, 
And my bark is on the sea; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee. 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate: 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean sour around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Wer't the last drop in the well, 
And I grasping on the brink, 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

In that water, as this wine, 
The libution I would pour 

Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 



SONG. 



LORD BYRON. 



Fill the goblet, again, for I never before, 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; 

Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life's varied 

round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 



132 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 

I have basked in the beam of a dark-rolling eye; 

I have loved! — who has not? — but what heart can declare 

That pleasure existed while passion was there? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will avow? 
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeams — thou never canst change: 
Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on earth what appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
We are jealous! — who is not? — thou hast no such alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; 
There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not? but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape! for when Summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: 
We must die — who shall not? May our sins be forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



THE ISLAND. 



LORD BYRON. 



But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile; 
Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Moon we depart, 
But not to-night— to-night is for the heart. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 133 

DEFIANCE. 



LORD BYRON. 



Forbear the banquet; Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom! Let them come, 
And do their worst: I shall not blench for them: 
Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 



GEKMAN DEINKIjSTG SONG. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Sweet Iser! where thy sunny realms, 

And flowery fountains mine; 
Thy waters I would shade with elm, 

To prop the tender vine. 
My golden flagons I would fill 
With rosy draughts from every hill; 

And under each green spreading bower, 
My gay companions should prolong 
The feast, the revel and the song, 

To many a sportive hour. 

Like rivers crimsoned by the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our nectar cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight! 
No care should touch the mellow heart, 
And sad or sober none depart, 

(For wine can triumph over woe;) 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers 

A Paradise below! 



134 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

SONG. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Drink ye to her that each loves best, 

And if you nurse a flame 
That's told but to her mutual breast, 

We will not ask her name. 

Enough, while memory tranced and glad 

Paints silently the fair, 
That each should dream of joys he's had, 

Or yet may hope a share. 

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast 
From hallowed thoughts so dear; 

But drink to her that each loves most, 
As she would love to hear. 



SONG OF SACK. 



JOHN CLEVELAND. 



Come let's drink away the time, 
When wine runs high, wit's in the prime 
Drink and stout drinkers are true joys; 
Odd sonnets and such little toys 
Are exercise fit for boys. 

The whining lover that doth place 

His fancy on a painted face, 

And wastes his substance in the chase, 

Would ne'er in melancholy pine 

Had he affections so divine 

As once to fall in love with wine. 

Then to our liquor let us sit; 
Wine makes the soul for actions fit. 
Who drinks most wine hath most wit: 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 135 

The gods themselves do revels keep, 
And in pure nectar tipple deep 
When slothful mortals are asleep. 

The gods then let us imitate, 
Secure from carping care and fate; 
Wine, wit and courage both create. 
In wine Apollo always chose, 
His darkest oracles to disclose, 
'Twas wine gave him his ruby nose. 

Who dares not drink's a wretched wight, 
Nor do I think that man dares fight 
All day, that dares not drink at night; 
Come fill my cup until it swim, 
With foam that overlooks the brim. 
Who drinks the deepest? Here's to him. 



COME, LET'S MIND OUR DRINKING. 



CHARLES COTTON. 



Come, let's mind our drinking, 

Away with this thinking; 
It ne'er that I heard of did any one good; 

Prevents not disaster, 

But brings it the faster, 
Mischance is by mirth and by courage withstood. 

He ne'er can recover 

The day that is over, 
The present is with us, and does threaten no ill. 

He's a fool that will sorrow 

For the thing call'd to-morrow, 
But the hour we've in hand we may wield as we will. 

A night of good drinking 
Is worth a year's thinking, 
There's nothing that kills us so surely as sorrow; 



136 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Then to drown our cares, boys, 
Let's drink up the stairs, boys, 
Each face of the gang will a sun be to-morrow. 



EILL THE BOWL. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



Fill the bowl with rosy wine, 
Around our temple roses twine, 
And let us cheerfully awhile, 
Like the wine and roses, smile. 
Crowned with roses, we contemn 
Gyges' wealthy diadem. 
To-day is ours; what do we fear? 
To-day is ours; we have it here! 
Let's treat it kindly, that it may 
Wish, at least, with us to stay. 
Let's banish business, banish sorrow, 
To the gods belongs to-morrow. 



BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. 



ARTHUR DAWSON. 



Ye good fellows all, 
Who love to be told where good claret's in store, 
Attend to the call 
Of one who's ne'er frighted, 
But greatly delighted 
With six bottles more. 
Be sure you don't pass 
The good house, Moneyglass, 
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns, 
'Twill well suit your humour — 
For, pray, what would you more, 
Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones? 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 137 

Ye lovers who pine 
For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, 
Who whimper and whine 
For lillies and roses, 
With eyes, lips and noses, 
Or tip of an ear! 
Come hither, I'll show ye 
How Phillis and Chloe 
No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans; 
For what mortal's so stupid 
As not to quit Cupid, 
When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones? 

Ye poets who write, 
And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook, — 
Though all you get by 't 
Is a dinner oftimes, 
In reward for your rhymes, 
With Humphrey the Duke, — 
Learn Bacchus to follow, 
And quit your Apollo, 
Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones 
Our gingling of glasses 
Your rhyming surpasses, 
When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. 

Ye soldiers so stout, 
With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin, 
Who make such a rout 
Of all your commanders, 
Who served us in Flanders, 
And eke at the Boyne, — 
Come leave off your rattling 
Of siezing and battling, 
And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones; 
Were you sent to Gibraltar, 
Your notes you'd soon alter, 
And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. 

Ye clergy so wise, 
Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear, 



138 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

How -worthy to rise! 

You preach once a week, 

But your tithes never seek 
Above once in a year! 

Come here without failing 

And leave off your railing 
'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones; 

Says the text so divine, 

"What is life without wine?" 
Then away with the claret, — a bumper, Squire Jones. 

Ye lawyers so just, 
Be the cause what it will you so learnedly plead, 
How worthy of trust! 
You know black from white, 
You prefer wrong to right, 
As you chance to be fee'd: — 
Leave musty reports, 
And forsake the king's courts, 
Where dullness and discord have set up their thronefc> 
Burn Salkeld and Ventris, 
And all your damned entries, 
And away with the claret — a bumper, Squire Jones! 

Ye physical tribe, 
Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, 
Whene'er you prescribe, 
Have at your devotion 
Pills, bolus, or potion, 
Be what will the case; 
Pray where is the need 
To purge, blister, and bleed? 
When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns 
That the forms of old Galen 
Are not so prevailing 
As mirth with good claret, — and bumpers, Squire Jones. 

Ye fox-hunters eke 
That follow the call of the horn and the hound, 
Who your ladies forsake 
Before they're awake 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 139 

To beat up the brake 
Where the vermin is found: — 

Leave Piper and Blueman, 

Shrill Duchess and Trueman, — 
No music is found in such dissonant tones! 

Would you ravish your ears 

With the songs of the spheres, 
Hark away to the claret, — a bumper, Squire Jones. 



GLUGGITY GLUG. 



GEORGE COLMAN. 



A jolly fat frier loved liquor good store, 

And he drunk stoutly at supper; 
He mounted his horse in the night at the door, 

And sat with his face to the crupper. 
"Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, 

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, 
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, 

While I was engaged at the bottle, 
Which went gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." 

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 

'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level; 
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, 

So he scampered due north like a devil. 
"This new mode of docking," the friar then said, 

"I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; 
"And 'tis cheap, for he never can eat off his head 

While I am engaged at the bottle, 
Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." 

The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got, 
He was rather for drinking than grazing; 

Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot, 
But to drink with their tails is amazing!" 



140 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, 
In the pond fell this son of a pottle; 

Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose — 
I wish I were over a bottle, 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." 



REVELRY IN INDIA. 



BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 



We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

And the walls round are bare; 
As they echo the peals of laughter 

It seems that the dead are there; 
But stand to your glasses steady, 

We drink to our comrade's eyes, 
Quaff a cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the next that dies! 

Not here are the goblets flowing, 

Not here is the vintage sweet; 
'Tis cold, as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses steady, 

And soon shall our pulses rise; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Not a sigh for the light that darkles, 

Not a tear for the the friends that sink; 
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
So stand to your glasses steady, 

'Tis in this cup that our respite lies; 
One cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Time was when we frowned at others, 
We thought we were wiser then; 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 141 

Ha! Ha! let those think of their mothers, 

We hope to see them again. 
No! stand to your glasses steady, 

The thoughtless are here the wise; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

There's many a hand that's shaking, 

There's many a cheek that's sunk; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
So stand to your glasses steady, 

'Tis here the revival lies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

There's a mist on the glass congealing, 

'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath; 
And thus does the warmth of feeling 

Turn ice in the grasp of death. 
Ho! stand to your glasses steady; 

For a moment the vapor flies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Who dreads to the dust returning? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore, 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sing no more? 
Ho! stand to your glasses steady; 

This world is a world of lies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betrayed by the land we find, 
Where the brightest have gone before us, 

And the dullest remain behind — 
Stand, stand to your glasses steady! 

'Tis all we have left to prize; 
A cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the next that dies! 



142 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

THE NEW KING AKTHUR* 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 



THE REVELLERS. 

With feast and sport 

We now consort, 
The merry dames of Arthur's court; 

While joys abound 

We here are found, 
The Knights of Arthur's Table Round. 

With nimble feet 

We form and fleet, 
In many a measure soft and sweet; 

With shining eyes, 

With happy sighs, 
We dance till dawn shall scale the skies! 

Oh, dance and sing 

While pages bring 
The cups where golden dragons cling; 

Oh, dance and drink, 

With cups that clink, 
And loitering hands that interlink! 

Oh, "all is well" 

The sentinel 
To Camelot's town will shortly tell, 

When proudly, soon 

At night's mid-noon, 
The towers of Camelot meet the moon! 

But we who quaff, 

In mirth's behalf 
The wine where lustres leap and laugh, 

We dance the more 

While many a score 
Of sleepy burghers toss and snore. 



♦Copyrighted by Funk & Wa^nals. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 143 

In pomp and pride 

The galleries glide, 
By mantling banners glorified, 

Or glittering tiers 

Of chandeliers 
On helms of glittering halberdiers. 

At times we seem 

Like shapes of dream 
That out from shadowy legends gleam; 

At times we throng 

As they who long 
Were ghosts of story and of song! 

At times we hear, 

Or faint or clear, 
A phantom voice amid our cheer; 

A wandering air 

The words will bear, 
"Ye are not and ye never were!" 

Oh, dance with glee, 

For what know we 
Of things that are and things to be? 

Oh, pour anew 

The wine, for who 
Hath power to part the false from true? 

Oh, Merlin sage, 

All gray with age, 
Dost thou know more than prince or page? 

Go, teach thy spells, 

Where wisdom dwells, 
To Dagonet, with this cap-and-bells! 

Thy learning school, 

By rote and rule, 
With good King Arthur's gaudy fool! 

For Dagonet now 

Can guess, we vow, 
The riddle of life as well as thou! 



144 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

We all are here, 

In festal year, 
G-awain, Geraint and Bedivere; 

We all are met, 

Elaine, Lynette, 
And hosts of lovlier ladies yet! 

With jest and wile, 

With quip and smile, 
The hours of banquet we bequile — 

With cups that clink, 

And blushes pink, 
And loitering hands that interlink! 

Oh, speed the rout, 

And round about, 
For life's a dream and death's a doubt! 

Oh, pour the wine, 

For who shall sign 
The bounds of human and divine? 

Oh, circle well 

For who can tell 
The day that brings the funeral-bell? 

Oh, fill the bowls, 

And when it tolls, 
May Saints have mercy on our souls! 

With wines that wink 

And cups that clink, 
And loitering hands that interlink, 

In feast and sport 

We now consort, 
The knights and dames of Arthur's court! 



WHEN I DEAIN THE KOSY BOWL. 



FRANCIS FAWKES. 



When I drain the rosy bowl, 
Joy exhilarates my soul; 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 145 

To the Nine I raise my song, 
Ever fair and ever young; 
When full cups my cares expel, 
Sober counsels, then, farewell: 
Let the winds that murmur, sweep 
All my sorrows to the deep. 

When I drink dull time away, 
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay, 
Lead me to delightful bowers, 
Full of fragrance — full of flowers; 
When I quaff the sparkling wine, 
And my locks with roses twine, 
Then I praise life's rural scene, 
Sweet, sequestered and serene. 

When I drink the bowl profound, 
Richest fragrance flowing round, 
And some lovely nymph detain, 
Venus then inspires the strain, 
When from goblets, deep and wide, 
I exhaust the generous tide, 
All my soul unbends; — I play 
Gamesome with the young and gay. 



WINE, WOMEN AND SONG.* 



EUGENE FIELD. 



O Varus mine, 

Plant thou the vine. 
Within this kindly soil of Tibur; 

Nor temporal woes, 

Nor spiritual, knows 
The man who's a discreet imbiber. 

For who doth croak 

Of being broke, 
Or who of warfare, after drinking? 

With bowl atween us, 



♦Copyright, Julia Sutherland Field; publishers, Charles Seribner & Sons. 



146 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Of smiling Venus 
And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking. 

Of symptoms fell 

Which brawls impel, 
Historic data give us warning; 

The wretch who fights 

When full, of nights, 
Is hound to have a head next morning. 

I do not scorn 

A friendly horn, 
But noisy toots, I cant' abide 'em! 

Your howling bat 

Is stale and flat 
To one who knows, because he's tried 'em! 

The secrets of 

The life I love 
(Companionship with girls and toddy) 

I would not drag 

With drunken brag 
Into the ken of everybody; 

But in the shade 

Let some coy maid 
With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, 

Then all day long, 

With mirth and song, 
Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle! 



TO A JAR OF WINE.* 



EUGENE FIELD. 



O gracious jar, — my friend, my twin, 
Born at the time when I was born, — 

Whether tomfoolery you inspire 

Or animate with love's desire, 
Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, 

Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine! 
♦Copyright, Julia Sutherland Field; publishers, Charles Scribner & Sons. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 147 

Come from your place this festal day; 
Corvinus hither wends his way, 
And there's demand for wine! 

Corvinus is the sort of man 

Who dotes on tedious argument. 
An advocate, his ponderous pate 

Is full of Blackstone and of Kent; 
Yet not insensible is he, 
O genial Massic flood! to thee. 
Why, even Cato used to take 

A modest, surreptitious nip 
At meal-times for his stomach's sake, 

Or to forefend la grippe. 

How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts, 

And bare the ernel knave's design; 
How through thy fascinating arts 

We discount Hope, O gracious wine! 
And passing rich the poor man feels 

As through his veins the affluence steals. 

Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing, 

And plot full many a naughty plot 
With damsels fair — nor shall we care 

Whether school keeps or not! 
And whilst thy charms hold out to burn 

We shall not deign to go to bed, 

But we shall paint creation red; 
So. fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine, — 

My lawyer friend, as aforesaid. 



A DRINKING SONG.* 



EUGENE FIELD. 



Come, brothers, share the fellowship 

We celebrate to-night; 
There's grace of song on every lip 

And every heart is light! 



♦Copyright, Julia Sutherland Field; publishers, Charles Scribner & Sons. 



148 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

But first, before our mentor chimes 

The hour of jubilee, 
Let's drink a health to good old times, 
And good times yet to be! 
Clink, clink, clink! 
Merrily let us drink! 
There's a store of wealth 
And more of health 
In every glass, we think. 
Clink, clink, clink! 
To fellowship we drink! 
And from the bowl 
No genial soul 
In such an hour can shrink. 

And you, oh, friends from west and east 

And other foreign parts, 
Come share the rapture of our feast, 

The love of loyal hearts; 
And in the wassail that suspends 

All matters burthensome, 
We'll drink a health to good old friends 
And good friends yet to come. 
Clink, clink, clink! 
To fellowship we drink! 
And from the bowl 
No genial soul 
In such an hour will shrink. 
Clink, clink, clink! 
Merrily let us drink! 
There's fellowship 
In every sip 
Of friendship's brew, we think. 



A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG.* 



EUGENE FIELD. 



If our own life is the life of a flower 

(And that's what some sages are thinking), 



♦Copyright, Julia Sutherland Field; publishers, Charles Scribner & Sons, 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 149 

We should moisten the hud with a health giving flood 
And 't will hloom all the sweeter — 
Yes, life's the completer 
For drinking, 

and drinking, 

and drinking. 

If it be that our life is a journey 

(As many wise folk are opining), 
"We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we 
may; 
Though dusty and dreary, 
'Tis made cool and cheery 
With wining, 

and wining, 

and wining. 

If this life that we live be a dreaming 

(As pessimist people are thinking), 
To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing meseems, 
Like this sweet prescription 
That baffles description — 
This drinking, 

and drinking, 

and drinking. 



WINE. 

JOHN GAY. 

Nulla placere diu y nee vivere carmina possunt, 
Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.— HOR. 

Of happiness terrestial, and the source 

Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse! 

Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape, 

Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul, 

Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature, 

And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age, 

And kindly warmth diffusing; — youthful fires 



150 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue 

His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before: 

Cordial restorative to mortal man, 

With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd! 

Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song, 

"That with no middle flight intends to soar:" 

Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing, 

By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air. 

When fumy vapours clog our loaded brows 

With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes, 

The external symptoms of remorse within, 

Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps, 

With head incumbent on expanded palm, 

Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd; 

Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd 

The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot 

Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd; 

Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din, 

Who fails not to exalt him to the stars, 

And fix him there among the branched crew, 

(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn, 

The greatest monsters of the Zodiac) 

Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf, 

Or Celia's scornful slights, and cold disdain, 

Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse, 

The worst events that mortals can befall; 

By cares depress'd, in pensive hippish mood, 

With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll, 

Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust, 

New life incites, and warms our chilly blood. 

Straight with pert looks we raise our drooping fronts, 

And pour in crystal pure they purer juice: 

With cheerful countenance and steady hand 

Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim 

To the expecting mouth: — with graceful taste 

The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue; 

The circling blood with quicker motion flies; 

Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight 

Dispell'st those clouds that, lowering dark eclips'd. 

The whilom glories of the gladsome face; — 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 151 

While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling rolling eyes, 

Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim. 

So mists and exhaltations that arise 

From "hills or steamy lake, dusky or gray," 

Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays, 

And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold 

Unable to resist, the foggy damps, 

That veil'd the surface of the verdant fields, 

At the god's penetrating beams disperse! 

The earth again in former beauty smiles, 

In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear. 

When disappointed Strephon meets repulse, 

Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood 

Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours, 

Till reinforc'd by thy most potent aid 

He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort, 

To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing, 

The British seaman quits his native shore. 

And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss, 

Ploughing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak, 

"With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;" 

Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls 

In dangers imminent, till she arrives 

At those blest climes thou favour'st with thy presence. 

Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast, 

Or lofty Teneriffe, Palma, Ferro, 

Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores, 

With gazing pleasure and astonishment, 

At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire) 

He thinks himself arrived: the purple grapes, 

In largest clusters pendent, grace the vines 

Innumerous: in fields grotesque and wild, 

They with implicit curls the oak entwine, 

And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs 

Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought, 

Or of left native isle, or absent friends, 

Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe, 

His kindly treacherous memory now presents; 

The jovial god has left no room for cares. 

Celestial Liquor! thou that did'st inspire 



152 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard, 
With lofty numbers, and heroic stains 
Unparallel'd with eloquence profound, 
And arguments convictive, did'st enforce 
Famed Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd: 
Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain 
Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet 
To jaded Muse, and oft with vain attempt, 
Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull, 
With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low, 
His unrecruited Muse could never reach 
The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount 
Of bright Lenaean sire, her barron drought 
He quench'd, and with inspiring nectarous juice 
Her drooping spirits cheered: — aloft she towers, 
Eorne on stiff pennons, and of wars alarms, 
And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings, 
'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts, 
And resolution bold, and ardour brave, 
Excit'st: thou check'st inglorious lolling ease, 
And sluggish minds with generous fires infiam'st. 

thou! that first my quickened soul did'st warm, 
Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise, 
Thy universal sway o'er all the world, 

In everlasting numbers, like the theme, 

1 may record, and sing thy matchless worth. 
Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd, 
His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height; 
Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd 
Aerial; now in Ariconian bogs 

She lies inglorious, floundering, like her theme, 

Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd 

In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise. 

With what sublimest joy from noisy town, 

At rural seat, Lucretius retir'd: 

Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares, 

Where the white poplar and the lofty pine 

Join neighboring boughs, sweet hospitable shade, 

Creating from Phoebean rays secure, 

A cool retreat, with few well chosen friends, 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 153 

On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours 

In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse! 

With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths, 

Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods. 

Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls, 

And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight, 

Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine! 

Whither from Formian grape depressed, Falern, 

Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, 

Lesbian, or Coecuban, the cheering bowl 

Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heightened wit 

To sing Mecaena's praise, their patron kind. 

But we not as our pristine sires repair 

To umbrageous grot or vale; but when the sun 

Faintly from western skies his rays oblique 

Darts sloping, and to Thetis wat'ry lap 

Hastens in prone career, with friends select 

Swiftly we hie to Devil, young or old, 

Jocund and boon; where at the entrance stands 

A stripling, who with serapes and humil cringe 

Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland; 

With lightest bound, and safe unerring step, 

He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs. 

Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue, 

And wagging tail, gambols and frisks before 

His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd, 

Whether in shady wood or pasture green, 

And waits his coming at the well-known gate. 

Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port, 

Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce 

Command and sovereignty: with haughty air, 

And studied mien, in semicircular throne 

Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands: 

Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd, 

Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine: 

Attendant slaves with eager strides advance, 

And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud 

Words unintelligible, noise confused: 

She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes, 

In characters mysterious, words obscure: 



154 AFTER-DINNER TOETIIY AND SENTIMENT. 

More legible are algebraic signs, 

Or mystic figures by magicians drawn, 

When they invoke the infernal spirit's aid. 

Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance 

Of savage Thracians and Croatian boors; 

The loud Centaurian broils with Lapithae 

Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean god, 

Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence, 

(Amid their cups whose innate temper's shown) 

In clumsy fist wielding scymetrian knife, 

Who slacks each other's eyes, and blubber'd face, 

Profaning Bacchanalian solemn rites: 

Music's harmonious numbers better suit 

His festivals, from instruments or voice, 

Or Gasperini's hand the trembling string 

Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames, 

Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue, 

Sweet symphonies should flow: the Delian god 

For airy Bacchus is associate meet. 

The stair's ascent now gained, our guide unbars 

The door of spacious room, and creaking chairs 

(To ear offensive) round the table sets. 

We sit; when thus his florid speech begins: 

Name, Sirs! the wine that most invites your taste; 

Champaign, or Bergundy, or Florence pure, 

Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old, 

Bordeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant. 

For Bordeaux we with voice unanimous 

Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers.) 

He quits the room alert, but soon returns; 

One hand capacious glistening vessels bears 

Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure, 

A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught 

With goodly wine. He, with extended hand 

Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice, 

O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon: 

We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs: 

Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!) 

And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best, 

Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 155 

The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile: 

With hearty zeal and wish unanimous, 

Her health we drink, and in her health our own. 

A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat 

We improve the interval, and joyous mirth 

Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee, 

Or witty joke, our airy senses moves 

To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room 

With universal peals and shouts resounds. 

The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen, 

Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss 

In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame, 

And mutual endearments, all her joys, 

Like the kind turtle's pure untainted love, 

Centre in him, who shares the grateful hearts 

Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen; 

For by his prudent care united shores 

Were sav'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire 

The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits 

Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new 

We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field. 

Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race 

Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul 

Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd 

That shone in his most worthy ancestors; 

For then distinct in separate breasts were seen 

Virtues distinct, but all in him unite. 

Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal 

Frugal, but free and generous of his own, 

Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland, 

And Halifax, the Muses' darling son, 

In whom conspicuous, with full lustre, shine 

The surest judgment and the brightest wit, 

Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too: 

And all the worthies of the British realm, 

In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge 

The dulcet wine with a more charming gust. 

Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye 

He's fir'd; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell,' 

Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes 



156 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid! — 
Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours; 
Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god 
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays 
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye, 
All blythe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights 
Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records, 
Now most we seem'd — Such is the power of Wine! 
Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth 
And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night 
Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad 
Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise 
Of coach, or cart, or smoky link-boys' call, 
Is heard — but universal silence reigns; 
When we in merry plight, airy and gay, 
Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly, 
With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord, 
Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod; 
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs 
Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies 
His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel 
Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our will; 
When we with liberal hand the score discharge, 
And homeward each his course with steady step 
Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft. 



GIVE ME BUT THE FOAM OF THE LIGHT WINE. 



EMANUEL GIEBEL. 



Give me but the foam of the light wine, 

But the beady foam alone; 
Give me but the dream of love divine 

For this life, which soon is flown. 

Full draught let another drink, not me, 
Who dwells in his home at rest; 

But I, like a wanderer, must flee, 
Not sit like a bird in nest, — 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 157 

Must wander and roam the world around, 

'Long a thousand winding ways, 
Both over the land and seas profound, 

Where the light of spring delays. 

Wherever a pleading voice I hear, 

That would bid me cease to fare, 
And with those who love take good cheer, 

I sing him the same old air. 

Give me but the foam of the light wine, 

But the beady foam alone; 
Give me but the dream of love divine 

For this life, which soon is flown. 



THE SOCIAL CUP. 



CHARLES GRAY. 



Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

Blythe are we, ane and a'; 
Aften hae we canties been, 

But sic a nicht we never saw! 

The gloamin' saw us a' sit down, 

The meikle mirth has been cur fa'; 
Then let the sang and toast gae roun' 

Till chanticleer begins to craw! 
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

Pick and wale o' merry men; 
What care we tho' the cock may craw, 

We're masters o' the tappit hen! 

The auld kirk bell has chappit twel', 

What cares tho' she had chappit twa! 
We're licht o' heart and winna part, 

Tho' time and tide may rin awa'; 
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

Hearts that care can never ding; 
Then let time pass — we'll steal his glass, 

And pu' a feather frae his wing! 



158 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Now is the witchin' time o' nicht, 

When ghaists, they say, are to be seen 
And fays dance ta the glow-worm's licht, 

Wi' fairies in their gawns of green. 
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

Ghaists may tak their midnight stroll, 
Witches ride on brooms astride, 

While we sit by the witchin' bowl! 

Tut! never speir how wears the morn, 

The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky, 
And, gif like her we fill our horn, 

I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry! 
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

Blythe, out-owre the barley bree; 
And let me tell, the moon hersel' 

Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea. 

Then fill us up a social cup, 

And never mind the dapple dawn; 
Just sit awhile, the sun may smile 

And licht us a' across the lawn! 
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we, 

See! the sun is kelkin ben; 
Gie Time his glass — for months may pass 

Ere we hae sic a nicht again! 



IT IS TO THEE I DRINK. 



JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD. 



Friend of my soul, this goblet quaff; 

Upon its nectared brink, 
A thousand eyes with rubied laugh, 

To thee a welcome blink. 

Friend of my soul, within this wine, 

No sorrow dims its pink, 
'Tis only pleasure's lethean shrine, 

That wooes thee but to drink. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

Friend of my soul, though years are dead, 

From memory's cup I shrink, 
Though youth has fled, with noiseless tread, 

It is to thee I drink. 
Friend of my soul, it is not health 

I'd pledge thee in this wine, 
It is not beauty's storied wealth, 

Nor woman's lips divine. 
Friend of my soul, there's naught so true, 

As this vintage with its age, 
And in its depths I drink to you 

Though scoffed by priest and sage. 

Friend of my soul, then lightly pass 

Misfortune's dismal frown, 
Fill high, drink deep, for time, alas, 

Will turn our goblets down. 



159 



SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 



CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 



Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 

Does the wine in our goblets gleam in; 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
Then fill to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight 

Of Time through Life's dominions, 
We here a while would now beguile 

The graybeard of his pinions, 
To drink to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 



160 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 

Nor fond Regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 

Nor sober Friendship stay him, 
We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 



ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING.* 



OLIVER WENDELL. HOLMES. 



Come! fill up a bumper— for why should we go, 

logwood 
While the <®&g$®v still reddens our cups as they flow? 

decoction 
Pour out the j&sh jw'tiiei still bright with the sun. 

dye stuff' 
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the ***&*«* shall run. 

half-ripened, apples 
The 9W 9 l% gtofeai oluot i cmo their life-dews have bled: 

taste sugar of lead 

How. sweet. is the fei'cat h'.;.of the fcagEma ilir^i ulna.' 

rank "poisons wines! I! 

For summer's, laofe"EOQ3 w lie hid in the . gjinog , 

,'stable-b03i5 smoking long nines. 
That were garnered. by! niaidono who laughod thi ' c' tho»¥i i H)3 i » 

scowl howl scoff sneer, 

Then a 4 anw 4g, v and a' atornj ahd,a^ toa pt/and :a« 8ho6 », 
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer 
Fo r •■ »11 Ihg) good wi»a, and * iq'' i iq roomi at it liai ' P* 
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall^ 
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all. 
-» -„, ii.. ft *y, n 7 * y ^..x-o^ f 7i n t fcuigfaa 1m 



♦Houghton/ Mifflin '^Company,' Publishers. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 161 

DRINK TO ME ONLY. 



BEN JOHNSON. 



Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or a leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from my soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sip, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It would not withered be, 
Sut thou thereon did'st only breathe, 

And sent it back to me; 
Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 



METAMORPHOSED GIPSIES. 



BEN JOHNSON. 



To the old, long life and treasure; 
To the young, all health and pleasure. 



THE REVELLERS. 



WALTER MALONE. 



Come, my comrades, fill the glasses till they bubble to the brim, 
For the hateful light of morning struggles through the shadows 
dim, 



162 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Like a witch's seething caldron on the hilltops of the East, 
And I loathe it as it nickers on the ruins of our feast: 

And I shudder as it glimmers with its flitting flames of blue, 
Through the murky mists and mazes, through the cold and 
clammy dew. 

Now we see each other's faces after all our fierce carouse, 
Throbbing pulses, parching eyelids, flaming cheeks and haggard 
brows; 

Now Remorse and Grief and Anguish come with stealthy, silent 

tread. 
And our souls are writhing serpents, and our hearts are lumps 

of lead. 

So, my comrades, fill the glasses, and our woes shall pass away; 
We shall hide the wrecks and ruins scattered in the light of day. 

Now I see the glasses bubble with a splendor crystalline, 
And I see them bubble, bubble, with a bounding bliss divine. 

Now I see them palpitating like the sparkling stars of night, 
Like the splendid eyes of seraphs under foamy wings of white; 

Here the red wine flames and flushes like the rose's burning 

breast, 
Here the white wine shines and shimmers, like the lily's creamy 

crest: 

Here the ruddy goblet glimmers like the glow of morning hours, 
And the trembling white wine twinkles like the dews on spotless 
flowers. 

Now I see the hazy hillsides of a land renowned in story, 
Sung by sweetest songs of poets, decked in never-dying glory; 

And I see the verdant vineyards in that wondrous kingdom old, 
With their grapes of royal purple, and their clustered grapes 
of gold; 

And I see the peasant maidens plucking from the loaded vines, 
And I see their naked bosoms sweeter than delicious wines. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 163 

So I fly to lands of fancy, fearing to return to earth, 
Strewn with wrecks and strewn with ruins, desert realms of 
death and dearth. 

I have lost my youth forever, lost my honor and my name, 
Trod the wastes of desolation, staggered through the mires of 
shame; 

Once a sweet girl made me happy, as her blue eyes gazed in 

mine, 
And her blushes, smiles and kisses filled me with a love divine; 

But the demon Dissipation tore the lovers far apart, 
And her sweet face faded from me — left me with a broken heart; 

So at last the goblet's poison through my sense and spirit stole, 
Till it owned my very being, and my body and my soul. 

It has fettered me forever, and will never set me free; 
It is mother, father, brother, sister, sweetheart unto me. 

Comrades, comrades, fill the glasses till the bright beads bubble 
o'er: 

Drink to vanished dreams and visions, hopes now fled forever- 
more; 

Drink to wrecks of time and talent, happy moments passed away, 
Drink to ruined lives and labors, doomed to perish and decay; 

Let the crystal glasses bubble, mocking at the morning light, 
As we drink to desolation, coffin, shroud and endless night. 



WOMAK 



JOHN MILTON. 



O fairest of creation! last and best 
Of all God's works! creatures in whom excell'd 
Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd 
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet. 



164 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

TO LADIES' EYES. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



To ladies' eyes around, boy, 

We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 

'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. 
For thick as stars that lighten 

Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, 
The countless eyes that brighten 

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. 
But fill the cup — where'er boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We're sure to find love there, boy, 

So drink them all! so drink them all! 

Some looks there are so holy, 

They seem but giv'n, they seem but giv'n 
As splendid beacons, solely 

To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. 
While some — oh! ne'er believe them — 

With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
Would lead us (God forgive them!) 

The other way, the other way. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
WVre sure to find love there, boy, 

So drink them all! so drink them all! 

In some, as in a mirror, 

Love seems portray'd, love seems portray'd. 
But shun the flattering error, 

'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. 
Himself has fix'd his dwelling 

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, 
And lips — but this is telling — 

So here they go! so here they go! 
Fill up, fill up — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We're sure to find love there, boy, 

So drink them all! so drink them all! 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 165 

DRINK TO HEE. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Drink to her, who long- 
Hath waked the poet's sigh; 

The girl who gave to song 
What geld could never buy. 

Oh! woman's heart was made 
For minstrel hands alone; 

By other ringers play'd, 
It yields not half the tone. 

Then here's to her, who long 
Hath waked the poet's sigh, 

The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy! 

At Beauty's door of glass 

When Wealth and Wit once stood, 
They asked her "which might pass?' 

She answered, "he who could." 
With golden key Wealth thought 

To pass — but 't would not do: 
While Wit a diamond brought, 

Which cut his way right through! 
So here's to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy! 

The love that seeks a home, 

Where wealth and grandeur shines, 
Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines. 
But oh! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere; 
Its native home's above, 

Though woman keeps it here! 
Then drink to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy! 



166 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

DRINK OF THIS CUP. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Drink of this cup— you'll find there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
Would you forget the dark world we are in, 

Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; 
But would you rise above earth, till akin 

To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. 
Send round the cup — for, oh there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality- 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

Ne'er yet was philter form'd with such power 

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; 
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, 

As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. 
There having by Nature's enchantment been fill'd 

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, 
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd 

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together! 
Then drink of the cup — you'll find there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one — 

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, 
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, 

Yet 'tis not less potent for being unlawful. 
And e'en though it taste of the smoke of that flame, 

Which in silence extracted its virtues forbidden — 
Fill up — there's a fire in some hearts I could name, 

Which may work, too, its charm, though as lawless and hidden. 
So drink of the cup — for oh there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 167 

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief 

To simpleton sages and reasoning fools; 
This moment's a flower too fair and brief, 

To be wither'd and stained by the dust of the schools; 
Your glass may be purple and mine be blue, 

But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, 
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, 

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me? 
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? 
No! perish the hearts and the laws that try 

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this. 



FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Soothes away a wrinkle. 
Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



168 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Sages can, they say, 

Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starred dominions: — 
So we, sages sit, 

And, mid bumpers bright'ning, 
From the heaven of wit 

Draw down all its lightning! 
Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Would'st thou know what first 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit? 
It chanced upon that day, 

When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us. 
Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

The careless Youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring, 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfer'd fire in: — 
But oh his joy! when, round, 

The halls of heaven spying, 
Amongst the stars he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying. 
Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Some drops were in that bowl, 
Remains of last night's pleasure, 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 169 

With which the Sparks of soul 

Mixed their burning treasure! 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us — 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper fair! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



SEND THE BOWL ROUND MERRILY. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Send the bowl round merrily, 

Laughing, singing, drinking, 
Toast it, toast it cheerily — 

Here's to the devil with thinking! 
Oh! for the round of pleasure, 

With sweetly-smiling lasses — 
Glasses o'erflowing their measure, 

With hearts as full as our glasses. 
Send the bowl round merrily, 

Laughing, singing, drinking, 
Toast it, toast it cheerily — 

Here's to the devil with thinking! 

Once I met a funny lass, 

Oh! I loved her dearly! 
Left for her my bonny glass — 

Faith! I died for her — nearly. 
But she proved damn'd uncivil, 

And thought to peck like a hen, sir; 
So I pitched the jade to the devil, 

And took to my glass again, sir. 



170 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Then send the bowl round merrily, 
Laughing, singing, drinking, 

Toast it, toast it cheerily — 
Here's to the devil with thinking! 

Now I'm turn'd a rover, 

In love with every petticoat; 
No matter whom it may cover, 

Or whether it's Jenny's or Betty's coat; 
And, if the girl can put up 

With any good thing in pieces, 
My heart I'll certainly cut up, 

And share it with all young misses. 
Then send the howl round merrily, 

Laughing, singing, drinking, 
Toast it, toast it cheerily — 

Here's to the devil with thinking! 

A bumper round to the pretty ones! 

Here's to the girl with the blue eyes! 
Here's to her with the jetty ones, 

Where the languishing dew lies! 
Could all such hours as this is 

Be summ'd in one little measure, 
I'd live a short life of blisses, 

And die in a surfeit of pleasure! 
Then send the bowl round merrily, 

Laughing, singing, drinking, 
Toast it, toast it cheerily — 

Here's to the devil with thinking! 



'TIS WHEN THE CUP IS SMILING. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



'Tis when the cup is smiling before us, 

And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy true, 
That the sky of this life opens o'er us, 

And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 171 

Talk of Adam in Eden reclining, 
We are better, far better off thus, boy thus; 

For him but two bright eyes were shining — 
See what numbers are sparkling for us! 

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing, 

And on t' other a blue eye beams, boy, beams, 
'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing, 

To disturb even a saint from his dreams. 
Though this life like a river is flowing, 

I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on, 
While the grape on its bank still is growing, 

And such eyes light the waves as they run. 



WREATHE THE BOWL. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Wreathe the bowl 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest wit can find us; 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heaven tonight, 

And leave dull earth behind us! 
Should love amid 
The wreaths be hid 

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us 
No danger fear, 
While wine is near, 

We'll drown him if he stings us. 
Then wreathe the bowl 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest wit can find us; 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heaven tonight, 

And leave dull earth behind us! 



172 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

'Twas nectar fed 

Of old, 'tis said, 
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; 

And man may brew 

His nectar, too, 
The rich receipt's as follows: 

Take wine like this, 

Let looks of bliss 
Around it well be blended, 

Then bring wit's beam 

To warm the stream, 
And there's your nectar splendid! 

So, wreathe the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest wit can find us; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven tonight, 
And leave dull earth behind us! 

Say, why did Time 

His glass sublime 
Fill up with sands unsightly 

When wine, he knew, 

Runs brisker through, 
And sparkles far more brightly! 

Oh, lend it us, 

And, smiling thus, 
The glass in two we'd sever, 

Make pleasure glide 

In double tide, 
And fill both ends forever! 

Then wreathe the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest wit can find us; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven tonight, 
And leave dull earth behind us! 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 173 

LALLA ROOKH. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



* * * 

Here sparkles the nectar, that hallow'd by love, 

Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, 
Who for wine of this earth left the fountain above, 

And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. 
And, bless'd with the odour our goblets give forth 

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? 
For oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, 

It is this, it is this. 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



One bumper at parting! though many 

Have circled the board since we met, 
The fullest, the saddest of any 

Remains to be crowned by us yet. 
The sweetness that pleasure has in it 

Is always so slow to come forth, 
That seldom, alas, till the minute 

It dies, do we know half its worth! 
But fill — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit awhile 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile! 
But Time, like a pitiless master, 

Cries "Onward!" and spins the gay hours; 
And never does Time travel faster 



174 AFTEK -DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But, come — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

This evening we saw the sun sinking 

In waters his glory made bright — 
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking 

Should be like that farewell of light. 
You saw how he finish'd by darting 

His beam o'er a deep billows brim — 
So fill up: — let's shine, at our parting, 

In full liquid glory, like him. 
And oh: may our life's happy measure 

Of moments like this be made up; 
'Twas born on the bosom of pleasure, 

It dies 'mid the tears of the cup! 



ANACBEOK 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Within this goblet, rich and deep, 

I cradle all my woes to sleep. 

Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, 

Or pour the unavailing tear? 

For Death will never heed the sigh, 

Nor soften at the tearful eye; 

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, 

Must all alike be seal'd in sleep; 

Then let us never vainly stray, 

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way; 

Oh! let us quaff the rosy wave 

Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave; 

And in the goblet, rich and deep, 

Cradle our crying woes to sleep. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 175 

ANACKEOK 



THOMAS MOORE. 



While our rosy fillets shed 

Blushes o'er each fervid head, 

With many a cup and many a smile 

The festal moments we beguile. 

And while the harp, impassion'd, flings 

Tuneful rapture from the strings, 

Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, 

Through the dance luxurious swims, 

Waving, in her snowy hand, 

The leafy Bacchanalian wand 

Which, as the tripping wanton flies, 

Shakes its tresses to her sighs! 

A youth, the while, with loos'nd hair, 

Floating on the listless air, 

Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, 

A tale of woes, alas! his own; 

And then, what nectar in his sigh, 

As o'er his lips the murmurs die 

Surely never yet has been 

So divine, so blest a scene! 

Has Cupid left the starry sphere, 

To wave his golden tresses here? 

Oh, yes! and Venus, queen of wiles, 

And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, 

All, all are here to hail with me 

The Genius of Festivity. 



ANACKEONTIC. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



I filled to thee, to thee I drank, 
I nothing did but drink and fill: 



176 AFTER-DINS Ell POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 
'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still! 

At length I bid an artist paint 
Thy image in this ample cup, 

That I might see the dimpled saint 
To whom I quaff'd my nectar up. 

Behold how bright that purple lip 
Is blushing through the wine at me! 

Every roseate drop I sip 
Is just like kissing wine from thee! 

But, oh! I drink the more of this; 

For, ever when the draught I drain. 
Thy lip invites another kiss, 

And in the nectar flows again! 

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear! 

And may that eye forever shine 
Beneath as soft and sweet a tear 

As bathes it in this bowl of mine. 



THE TOPEE'S APOLOGY. 



CHARLES MORRIS. 



I'm often asked by plodding souls 

And men of crafty tongue, 
What joy I take in draining bowls, 

And tippling all night long. 
Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn, 

For once I'll not disdain 
To tell them why I sit till morn 

And fill my glass again. 

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 

Life's pictures mellow made; 
The fading light then brightly lives, 

And softly sinks the shade; 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 177 

Some happier tint still rises there 

With every drop I drain— 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry, 

No frolic flight will take; 
But round a bowl she'll dip and fly, 

Like swallows round a lake. 
Then if the nymph will have her share 

Before she'll bless her swain- 
Why that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again'. 

In life I've rung all changes too- 
Run every pleasure down, — 

Tried all extremes of fancy through, 
And lived with half the town; 

For me there's nothing new or rare 
Till wine deceives my brain — 

And that I think 's a reason fair 
To fill my glass again. 

There's many a lad I knew is dead, 

And many a lass grown old; 
And as the lesson strikes my head, 

My weary heart grows cold. 
But wine awhile drives off despair, 

Nay, bids a hope remain— 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 

In these convulsive days, 
I can't endure the ruin'd fate 

My sober eye surveys; 
But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare, 

I see the gloom less plain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 



178 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

I find, too, when I stint my glass, 

And sit with sober air, 
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, 

Who treads the path of care; 
Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear 

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too, 

With different holds entwine? 
While nought but death can some undo, 

There's some give way to wine. 
With me the lighter head I wear 

The lighter hangs the chain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

And now I'll tell, to end my song, 

At what I most repine; 
This cursed war, or right or wrong, 

Is war against all wine; 
Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 

As juice of France or Spain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 



IN PRAISE OF GOOD BEER. 



THOMAS NABBES. 



Thou, ever youthful God of Wine, 
Whose burnished cheeks with rubies shine, 
Thy brows with ivy chaplets crowned 
We dare thee here to pledge a round! 
Thy wanton grapes we do detest 
Here's richer juice from barley pressed. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 179 

Let not the Muses vainly tell 

What virtue's in the horse-hoof well, 

That scarce one drop of good blood breeds, 

But, with mere inspiration feeds; 

Oh, let them come, and taste this beer, 

And water henceforth they'll forswear. 

If that, the Paracelsian crew, 

The virtues of this liquor knew, 

Their endless toils they would give o'er, 

And never use extractions more; 

'Tis medicine, meat, for young and old, 

Elixir, — blood of tortured gold. 

It is sublimed — it's calcinate; 

'Tis rectified — precipitate; 

It is Androgena — Sol's wife; 

It is the mercury of life; 

It is the quinessence of malt, 

And they that drink it want no salt. 

It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills; 
Men's heads with proclamation fills; 
It makes some dumb, and others speak, 
Strong vessels hold, and cracked ones leak. 
It makes some rich, and others poor, 
It makes, and yet mars many a score. 



180 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

A bottle is a very good thing, 

With a good deal of good wine in it; 
A song is good, when a body can sing, 

And to finish we must begin it. 
For a glass is good, and a lass is good, 

And a pipe is good in cold weather; 
The world is good, and the people are good, 

And we're all good fellows together. 

A friend is good when you're out of good luck, 

For that is the time to try him; 
For a justice good the haunch of a buck, 

"With such a good present you'll buy him; 
A fine old woman is good when she's dead; 

A rogue very good for good hanging; 
A fool is good by the nose to be led, 

And my song deserves a good banging. 
For a lass is good, and a glass is good, 

And a pipe is good in cold weather; 
The world is good, and the people are good, 

And we're all good fellows together. 



AIK— "DON CAESAK." 



JOHN O'KEEFE. 



Flow, thou regal dut** 1 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

WHISKY. 



181 



JOSEPH O'LEARY. 



Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 
Were it not a shame, 

Whilst we gaily fling thee 
To our lips of flame, 

If we could not sing thee? 
Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 

Greek and Roman sung 

Chian and Falernian— 
Shall no harp be strung 

To thy praise Hibernian? 
Yes! let Erin's sons — 

Generous, brave, and frisky— 
Tell the world at once 

They owe it to their whisky. 
Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 

If Anacreon — who 

Was the grape's best poet- 
Drank our Mountain- dew, 

How his verse would show it! 
As the best then known, 

He to wine civil; 
Had he Inishowen, 

He'd pitch wine to the d 1. 

Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 



182 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 

Bright as beauty's eye, 

When no sorrow veils it; 
Sweet as beauty's sigh, 

When young love inhales it; 
Come, then, to my lip — 

Come, thou rich in blisses! 
Every drop I sip 

Seems a shower of kisses. 
Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 

Could my feeble lays 

Half thy virtues number, 
A whole grove of bays 

Should my brows encumber. 
Be his name adored, 

Who summed up thy merits 
In one little word, 

When he called thee spirits. 
Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 

Send it gaily round — 

Life would be no pleasure, 
If we had not found 

This enchanting treasure; 
And when tyrant Death's 

Arrow shall transfix ye, 
Let your latest breaths 

Be, whisky! whisky! whisky! 
Whisky, drink divine! 

Why should drivellers bore us 
With the praise of wine, 

Whilst we've thee before us? 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 183 

VENICE PBESEKVED. 



THOMAS OTWAT. 



O woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee 
To temper man; we had been brutes without you. 
Angels are painted fair to look like you; 
There's in you all that we believe of heaven, 
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, 
Eternal joy, and everlasting love. 



PEEVIGILIUM YEKEEIS. 



PARNELL'S TRANS. 



* * * 

Let those love now, who never loved before, 
Let those who always loved, now love the more. 



THE GOBLET. 



J. G. PERCIVAL. 



Where gay Falernian lifts its sunny brow 

O'er wide Campania's sea of bending corn, 

I rose and shook my tendrils to the gale, 

And glowed with living purple and gold. 

How rich, to see the teeming clusters 

Droop beneath their nectared load, 

To inhale the airs of fragrance. 

As the wanton wind 

Loaded his wings with dewy sweetness, culled 

The choicest perfumes that I shed, 

And whispering o'er the banks 



184 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Of blossoms, gave them richer sweets: 

Fluttering zephyrs hovered round me, 

Kissed my purple, frosted coat, 

And tinged their lips with honey. Dews 

Wet my clusters, till themselves 

Imbibed my sweets, and then exhaled 

In fragrant mist away. 

Pressed, and refined by time, I stand 

Within the crystal goblet, while a light 

Of purest amber floats around and sheds a mellow beam, 

As if a cloud of clustering roses 

Crossed the sun and crimsoned all the earth. 



A HEALTH. 



EDWARD COATE PINCKNEY. 



I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, 
The measure of her hours; 

Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
The freshness of young flowers; 



T0AST8 AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 185 

And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idols of past years! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain; 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears, 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon, — 
Her health! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 

And weariness a name. 



SONG. 



BYRON W. PROCTOR. 



Here's a health to thee, Mary, 
Here's a health to thee; 

The drinkers are gone, 

And I am alone, 
To think of home and thee, Mary. 

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, 
And many as frank and free, 

And a few as fair; 

But the summer air 
Is not more sweet to me, Mary. 



186 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary, 
And thy dimmed and gentle eye; 
And I've called on thy name 
When the night-winds came, 
And heard thy heart reply, Mary. 

Be thou but true to me, Mary, 
And I'll be true to thee; 

And at set of sun, 

When my task is done, 
Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary! 



UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL. 



EARL OP ROCHESTER. 



Vulcan, contrive me such a cup 

As Nestor us'd of old; 
Show all thy skill to trim it up, 

Damask it round with gold. 

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack 

"Up to the swelling brim, 
Vast toasts on the delicious lake, 

Like ships at sea, may swim. 

Engrave not battle on his cheek, 
With war I've nought to do, 

I'm none of those that took Maestrick, 
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew. 

Let it no name of planets tell, 
Fixed stars, or constellations; 

For I am no Sir Sidrophel, 
Nor none of his relations. 

But carve thereon a spreading vine, 

Then add two lovely boys; 
Their limbs in amorous folds entwine, 

The type of future joys. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 187 

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, 

May Drink and love still reign! 
With wine I wash away my care, 

And then to love again. 



COFFEE. 



FRANCIS S. SAL.TUS. 



Voluptuous berry! where may mortals find 
Nectars divine that can with thee compare, 
When, having dined, we sip thy essence rare, 

And feel towards wit and repartee inclined? 

Thou wert of sneering, cynical Voltaire 
The only friend; thy power urged Balzac's mind 
To glorious effort; surely Heaven designed 

Thy devotees superior joys to share. 

Whene'er I breathe thy fumes, 'mid Summer stars, 
The Orient's splendent pomps my vision greet. 
Damascus with its myriad minarets gleams! 
I see thee, smoking, in immense bazaars, 
Or yet in dim seraglios, at the feet 
Of blonde Sultana's pale with amorous dreams. 



CHOCOLATE. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



Liquid delectable, I love thy brown 
Deep-glimmering color like a wood-nymph's tress; 
Potent and swift to urge on Love's excess, 

Thou wert most loved in the fair Aztec town. 

Where Cortes, battling for Iberia's crown, 
First found thee, and with rough and soldier guess, 
Pronounced thy virtues of rare worthiness 

And fit by Madrid's dames to gain renown. 



188 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

When tasting of thy sweets, fond memories 
Of bygone days in Versailles will arise; 

Before the King, reclining at his ease 

I see Dubarry in rich toilet stand, 
A gleam of passion in her lustrous eyes, 

A Sevres cup held in her jeweled hand! 



TEA. 



FRANCIS S. SAL.TUS. 



From what enchanted Eden came thy leaves 
That hide such subtle spirits of perfume? 
Did eyes pre-adamite first see thee bloom, 

Luscious nepenthe of the soul that grieves? 

By thee the tired and torpid mind conceives, 
Fairer than roses brightening life's gloom, 
Thy protem charm can every form assume 

And turn December nights to April eves. 

Thy amber-tinted drops bring back to me 
Fantastic shapes of great Mongolian towers, 
Emblazoned banners, and the booming gong; 
I hear the sound of feast and revelry, 
And smell, far sweeter than the sweetest flowers, 
The kiosks of Pekin, fragrant of Oolong! 



CHAMPAGNE FRAPPE. 



FRANCIS S. SAL.TUS. 



Delicious, effervescent, cold Champagne, 

Imprisoned sunshine, glorious and bright, 
How many virtues in thy charm unite? 

Who from thy tempting witchery can abstain? 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 189 

Sad hearts by ennui vexed revive a,gain 

When in the frail, green glass thou foamest light, 
And by thy spell our sophistry takes flight; 

Fair queen of wines, long be thy merry reign. 

To me thy sparkling souvenir recalls 
Grand Boulevards, all dazzling with the glare 
Of countless lights; the revel and uproar 
Of midnight Paris and the Opera balls; 
A maze of masks! a challenge flung to Care! 
And charming suppers at the "Maison d'Or!" 



POET. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



When unto me they bring, with gentle care, 
Thy nectar, sleeping in the cobwebbed flask, 
There is no boon of fairy gods to ask 

More pain annihilating or more rare. 

The gloomy gray of storm-clouds seemeth fair, 
Thou makest light the long day's onerous task, 
Uplifted lies life's tedium and its mask, 

Light, love and laughter enter everywhere. 

And then I see old bankers, flushed with pride, 
Converse on politics, and gold, and Pitt; 

But cheerier far, in some dim tavern's nook, 
I see in dreams dear Jerrold by the side 
Of glorious Thackery, listening to the wit, 
And gay, infectous laugh of Theodore Hook! 



TOKAL 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



A glass of thy reviving gold to me, 
Whether or no my dreamy soul be sad, 



190 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 



Brings souvenirs of lovely Vienna, glad 
In her eternal summer-time to be! 

I hear, in joyous trills, resounding free, 
The waltzes that the German fairies bade 
The souls of Strauss and Lanier, music mad, 

Compose, to set the brains of worlds aglee. 

And in the Sperl, dreaming away the sweet 
Of pleasant life, and finding it all praise, 
Dead to the past and scorning Death's surprise, 
I see in calm felicity complete 
Some fair Hungarian Jewess on me gaze, 
With the black glory of Hebraic eyes! 



BRANDY. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



Thy mighty power stirs up the sluggish blood 
To craft and cunning and rejuvenate fire, 
And fills again with raptures of desire 

The failing sense that drowns in amour's flood. 

The spirit's song, freed from our carnal mud, 

Then soars supreme, and grandlier doth aspire, 
And with new vigor that can never tire, 

The flowers of fancy burst within the bud. 

In nobler ways, even yet, thou prov'st thy might, 
When soldiers, strengthened by thy drops of flame 
Forget their gory wounds in frantic zeal, 
And with high souls all thrilling for the fight, 
Assault dread bastions for their country's fame, 
And lead their flags through labyrinths of steel! 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 191 

BASS'S ALE. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



When'er thy foaming beads attract my lips, 
A rapid vision passes o'er my mind 
Of strong Cunarders, battling with the wind ; 

And cosy cabins, and the roll of ships. 

I hear the tempest lash the sails like whips, 
I see the rigid bow its pathway find 
Deep in the night, leaving in sheen behind 

A snaky trail of phosphorescent tips. 

Or, when thy vigor to the lees I drain, 
I, from the belfrey of St. Paul's behold 
Gigantic London in gray winter hours, 
Waiting for drowsy dawn to come again, 
While the great sun, veiled in a fog of gold, 
Bursts in red glory on her haughty Towers! 



ANISETTE. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



How swiftly thou canst dissipate all care 
Sweet Circe of liqtieurs when thou dost steal 
Our fancies from us, and with subtle zeal 

Make life more rosy-tinct and debonair. 

There's merry madness hidden in the air, 
Gay as the refrain of a Vaudeville, 
When the sweet sorcery, thou canst ne'er conceal, 

Lures us to gentle laughter everywhere. 

Thy very name makes resurrect to me 
The shadowy past of bygone student days; 
The guignols, aye, the gay cafes, and lo, 

The blooming fires of youth that used to be, 
And kisses stolen in delicious ways, 
Beneath the ancestral oaks of Fontainebleau! 



192 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

BEER. 



FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 



What merry fairy, oh cool, delicious beer, 
Gave thee the power through centuries to maintain 
A charm that soothes dull care, and laughs at pain; 

A power sad hearts to vitalize and cheer? 

No blase palate of thy drops can fear; 
Once quaffed, lips eager, seek thy sweets again, 
Without thee students sing no loud refrain; 

Laughter and mirth depart, be thou not near. 

And when I drink thee to my soul's delight, 
A vision of King Gambrinus, fat and gay, 
Haunts me, and I behold bright tankards shine, 
And hear him laugh with many a thirsty wight, 
And merry maidens, drinking night and day, 
In quaint, old, gabled towns along the Rhine. 



HEKE'S A HEALTH TO KING CHAELES. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



Bring the bowl which you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim; 
'Tis to him we love most, 

And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt, ye base carles! 
Were there death in the cup, 

Here's a health to King Charles! 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

Unaided, unknown, 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own; 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

Though 'tis under our breath, 

Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here's to honour and faith, 

And a health to King Charles! 

Let such honours abound 

As the time can afford, 
The knee on the ground, 

And the hand on the sword; 
But the time shall come round 

When, 'mid lords, dukes, and earls, 
The loud trumpet shall sound 

Here's a health to King Charles! 



193 



SONG. 



RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; 

Here's to the widow of fifty; 
Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen, 
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. 
Let the toast pass, 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass 

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize; 

Now to the maid who has none, sir; 
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
Let the toast pass, 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass 

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow; 

Now to her that's as brown as a berry; 
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, 
And now to the girl that is merry. 
Let the toast pass, 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass 



194 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 

Young or ancient, I care not a feather; 
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, 
And let us e'en toast them together. 
Let the toast pass, 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass 



SONG. 



RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



Oh, the days when I was young, 

When I laugh'd in fortune's spite; 
Talk'd of love the whole day long, 

And with nectar crown'd the night! 
Then it was, old father Care, 

Little reck'd I of thy frown; 
Half thy malice youth could bear, 

And the rest a bumper drown. 

Truth, they say, lies in a well, 

Why, I vow I ne'er could see: 
Let the water-drinkers tell, 

There it always lay for me: 
For when sparkling wine went round, 

Never saw I falsehood's mask; 
But still honest truth I found 

At the bottom of each flask. 

True, at length my vigour's flown, 

I have years to bring decay; 
Few the locks that now I own, 

And the few I have are grey. 
Yet, old Jerome, thou may'st boast, 

While thy spirits do not tire; 
Still beneath thy age's frost 

Glows a spark of youthful fire. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 195 

GLEE AND CHORUS. 



RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



This bottle's the sun of our table, 
His beams are rosy wine; 

We, planets, that are not able 
Without his help to shine, 

Let mirth and glee abound! 
You'll soon grow bright 
With borrow'd light, 

And shine as he goes around. 



THE SOLDIER. 



WILLIAM SMYTH. 



What dreaming drone was ever blest, 

By thinking of the morrow? 
To-day be mine — I leave the rest 

To all the fools of sorrow; 
Give me the mind that mocks at care, 

The heart its own defender; 
The spirits that are light as air, 

And never beats surrender. 

On comes the foe — to arms — to arms — 

We meet — 'tis death or glory; 
'Tis victory in all her charms, 

Or fame in Britain's story; 
Dear native land! thy fortunes frown, 

And ruffians would enslave thee; 
Thou land of honor and renown, 

Who would not die to save thee? 

'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball; 
And me it better pleases 



196 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

In battle with the brave to fall, 

Than die of cold diseases; 
Than drivel on an elbow-chair 

With saws and tales unheeded, 
A tottering thing of aches and care, 

Nor longer loved nor needed. 

But thou— dark is thy flowing hair, 

Thy eye with fire is streaming, 
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air, 

Health sits in triumph beaming; 
Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, 

Fill high the wine to beauty; 
Love, friendship, honor, all are thine, 

Thy country and thy duty. 



LOVE AND DEBT. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 



There's one request I make to Him 

Who sits the clouds above: 
That I were fairly out of debt, 

As I am out of love. 

Then for to dance, to drink, and sing, 

I should be very willing; 
I should not owe one lass a kiss, 

Nor any rogue one shilling. 

'Tis only being in love, or in debt, 

That robs us of our rest, 
And he that is Quite out of both, 

Of all the world is blest. 

He sees the golden age, wherein 
All things were free and common: 

He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest — 
And fears nor man nor woman. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 197 

GRAINEVERT'S SONG IN "BRENNORALT." 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 



Come, let the state stay 
And drink away, 

There is no business above it: 
It warms the cold brain, 
Makes us speak in high strain, 

He's a fool that does not approve it. 
The Macedone youth 
Left behind him this truth, 

That nothing is done with much thinking; 
He drank, and he fought, 
Till he had what he sought, 

The world was his own by good drinking. 



"WINE AND VENUS. 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 



Ho, comrades mine! 

What is your pleasure? 
What business fine 
Or mirthful measure? 
Lo, Venus toward our crew advancing, 
A choir of Dryads round her dancing! 

Good fellows you! 

The time is jolly! 
Earth springs anew, 
Bans melancholy; 
Bid long farewell to winter weather! 
Let lads and maids he blythe together. 

Dame Venus spurns 

Her brother Ocean; 
To Bacchus turns; 

No colder potion 



198 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Deserves her godhead's approbation; 
On sober souls she pours damnation. 

Let then this band, 

Imbued with learning, 
By Venus stand, 
Her wages earning! 
Laymen we spurn from our alliance, 
Like brutes to art deaf, dumb to science. 

Two gods alone 

We serve and mate with; 
One law we own, 
Nor hold debate with: 
Who lives the goodly student fashion 
Must love and win love back with passion! 



A SEQUENCE IN PEAISE OF WINE. 



JOHN ADD1NGTON SYMONDS. 



Wine the good and bland, thou blessing 
Of the good, the bad's distressing, 
Sweet of taste by all confessing, 

Hail thou world's felicity! 
Hail thy hue, life's gloom dispelling; 
Hail thy taste, all tastes excelling; 
By thy power, in this thy dwelling 

Deign to make us drunk with thee! 

Oh, how blest for bounteous uses 
Is the birth of pure vine- juices! 
Safe's the table which produces 

Wine in goodly quality. 
Oh, in colour how auspicious! 
Oh, in odour how delicious! 
In the mouth how sweet, propitious 

To the tongue enthralled by thee! 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 199 

Blest the man who first thee planted, 
Called thee by thy name enchanted! 
He whose cups have ne'er been scanted 

Dreads no danger that may be. 
Blest the belly where thou bidest! 
Blest the tongue where thou residest! 
Blest the mouth through which thou glidest, 

And the lips thrice blest by thee! 

Therefore let wine's praise be sounded, 
Healths to topers all propounded; 
We shall never be confounded, 

Toping for eternity! 
Pray we: here be thou still flowing, 
Plenty on our board bestowing, 
While with jocund voice we're showing 

How we serve thee — Jubilee! 



A CAEOL OF WINE. 



JOHN ADDINGTON STMONDS. 



In dulci jubilo 

Sing we, make merry so! 
Since our heart's pleasure 

Latet in poculo 
Drawn from the cask, good measure, 

Pro hoc convivio, 

Nunc, nunc bibito! 

O crater parvule! 

How my soul yearns for thee! 
Make me now merry, 

O potus optime, 
Claret or hock or sherry! 

Et vos concinite: 

Vivant socii! 



200 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

O vini caritas! 

O Bacchi lenitas! 
We've drained our purses 

Per multa pocula: 
Yet hope we for new mercies, 

Nummorum gaudia: 

Would that we had them, ah! 

Ubi sunt gaudia? where, 

If that they be not there? 
There the lads are singing 

Selecta cantica: 
There are glasses ringing 

In villae curia; 
Oh, would that we were there! 



THE STUDENT'S WINE-BOUT. 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 



Ho, all ye jovial brotherhood, 

Quos sitis vexat plurima, 
I know a host whose wits are good, 

Quod vina spectat optima. 

His wine he blends not with the juice 

E puteo qui sumitur; 
Each kind its virtue doth produce 

E botris ut exprimitur. 

Host, bring us forth good wine and strong, 

In cella quod est optimum! 
We brethren will our sport prolong 

Ad noctis usque terminum. 

Whoso to snarl or bite is fain, 

Ut canes decet rabidos, 
Outside our circle may remain, 

Ad porcus eat sordidos. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 201 

Hurrah! my lads, we'll merry make! 

Levate sursum pocula! 
God's blessing on all wine we take, 

In sempiterna saecula! 



TIME'S A-FLYING. 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 



Laurel-crowned Horatius, 

True, how true thy saying! 
Swift as wind flies over us 

Time, devouring, slaying. 
Where are, oh! those goblets full 

Of wine honey-laden, 
Strifes and loves and bountiful 

Lips of ruddy maiden? 

Grows the young grape tenderly, 

And the maid is growing; 
But the thirsty poet, see, 

Years on him are snowing! 
What's the use on hoary curls 

Of the bays undying, 
If we may not kiss the girls, 

Drink while time's a-flying? 



THE GOBLET * 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



When Life his lusty course began, 
And first I felt myself a man, 
And Passion's unforeboded glow — 
The thirst to feel, the will to know- 



►Houghton, Mifflin & Company. Publishers. 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Gave courage, vigor, fervor, truth, 
The glory of the heart of Youth, 
And each awaking pulse was fleet 
A livelier march of joy to beat, 
Presaging in its budding hour 
The ripening of the human flower, 
There came, on some divine intent, 
One whom the Lord of Life had sent, 
And from his lips of wisdom fell 
This fair and wond'rous oracle: — 

Life's arching temple holds for thee 
Solution quick, and radiant key 
To many an early mystery; 
And thou art eager to pursue, 
Through many a dimly-lighted clew, 
The hopes that turn thy blood to fire, 
The phantoms of thy young desire; 
Yet not to reckless haste is poured 
The nectar of the generous lord, 
Nor mirth nor giddy riot jar 
The penetralia, high and far; 
But steady hope, and passion pure, 
And manly truth, the crown secure. 

Within that temple's secret heart, 

In mystic silence shrined apart, 

There is a goblet, on whose brim 

All raptures of Creation swim. 

No light that ever beamed in wine 

Can match the glory of its shine, 

Or lure with such a mighty art 

The tidal flow of every heart. 

But in its warm, bewildering blaze, 

An ever-shifting magic plays, 

And few who round the altar throng 

Shall find the sweets for which they long. 

Who, unto brutish life akin, 

Comes to the goblet dark with sin, 

And with a coarse hand grasps, for him 

The splendor of the gold grows dim, 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

The gems are dirt, the liquor's flame 
A maddening beverage of shame, 
And into caverns shut from day 
The hot inebriate reels away. 

For each shall give the draught he drains 

Its nectar pure, or poison stains; 

From out his heart the flavor flows 

That gives him fury, or repose: 

And some shall drink a tasteless wave 

And some increase the thirst they lave; 

And others loathe as soon as taste, 

And others pour the tide to waste; 

And some evoke from out its deeps 

A torturing fiend that never sleeps — 

For vain all arts to exorcise 

From the seared heart its haunting eyes. 

But he who burns with pure desire, 

With chastened love and sacred fire, 

With soul and being all aglow 

Life's holiest mystery to know, 

Shall see the goblet flash and gleam 

As in the glory of a dream; 

And from its starry lip shall drink 

A bliss to lift him on the brink 

Of mighty rapture, joy intense, 

That far outlives its subsidence. 

The draught shall strike Life's narrow goal, 

And make an outlet for his soul, 

That down the ages, broad and far, 

Shall brighten like a rising star. 

In other forms his pulse shall beat, 

His spirit walk in other feet, 

And every generous hope and aim 

That spurred him on to honest fame, 

To other hearts give warmth and grace, 

And keep on earth his honored place, 

Become immortal in his race. 



204 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

SUMMEK'S BACCHANAL.* 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



Fill the cup from some secretest fountain, 
Under granite ledges, deep and low, 

Where the crystal vintage of the mountain, 
Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow. 

Some lost stream, that in a woodland hollow 

Coils, to sleep its weariness away, 
Shut from prying stars, that fain would follow 

In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray. 

Fill, dear friend, a goblet cool and sparkling 
As the sunlight of October morns, — 

Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling 
Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns! 

We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing, 
Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew; 

Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing, 
Shake the leaves between us and the blue. 

We will pledge in breathless, long libation 
All we have been, or have sworn to be, — 

Fame, and Joy, and Love's dear adoration, — 
Summer's lusty bacchanals are we! 

Round the white roots of the fragrant lily, 
And the mossy hazles, purple-stained, 

Once the music of these waters chilly 
Gave return for all the sweetness drained. 

How that rare, delicious, woodland flavor 
Mocked my palate in the fever hours, 

When I pined for springs of coolest savor, 
As the burning Earth for thunder-showers! 



♦Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Publishers. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 

In the wave, which through my maddened dreaming 
Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again! 

Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming — 
Fresh as this to manhood's heart and brain! 

Fill, fill high! and while our goblets, ringing, 
Shine with vintage of the mountain snow, 

Youth shall bid his Fountain, blythely springing, 
Brim our souls to endless overflow! 



I WOULD DKINK- 



POST WHEELER. 



I would drink, if God please, 
The wine of my life down to the lees; 
Tasting it first, as a connoisseur, 
The vintage of far days that were, 
Sipping it lightly till its grace 
Flooded my senses, flushed my face; 
Then with my bearded lip plunged low 
To deeper and fuller draughts, and so— 
With the cup ringing down at my feet to lie, 
Draw a heaving breath of the leaning sky. 



WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN? 



ANONYMOUS. 



When shall we three meet again? 
When shall we three meet again? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 



206 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parched beneath a hostile sky; 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls. 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled, 
When its wasted lamps are dead; 
When in cold oblivion's shade, 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid; 
Where immortal spirits reign, 
There shall we three meet again. 



A SONG FOE DEINKING. 



Would you be a man of fashion? 

Would you lead a life divine? 
Take a little dram of passion 

In a lusty dose of wine. 

If the nymph have no compassion, 
Vain it is to sigh and groan: 

Love was but put in for fashion, 
Wine will do the work alone. 



A SONG FOE LOYE. 



Would you know earth's highest pleasure? 

Would you rival gods above? 
Drink rich wines, but drink with measure, 

But fear no excess in love. 

Of if wine you quite give over, 
You will nothing lose thereby; 

All is rapture to the lover, 
So in love he live or die. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 207 

SUFFOLK HAKVEST-HOME SONG. 



Here's a health unto our master, 

The founder of the feast! 
I wish with all my heart and soul 

In heaven he may rest. 
I hope all things may prosper 

That ever he takes in hand; 
For we are all his servants, 

And all at his command. 
Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill, 
For if you do, you must drink two, — it is our master's will. 

Now our harvest is ended, 

And our supper is past; 
Here's our mistress's good health 

In a full flowing glass; 
She is a good woman, 

She prepared us good cheer; 
Come, all my brave boys, 

And drink off your beer. 
Drink, my boys, drink, till you come unto me, 
The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be. 



IN PEAISE OF WINE. 



Diogenes, surly and proud, 

Who snarled at the Macedon youth, 
Delighted in wine that was good, 

Because in good wine there was truth; 
But, growing as poor as Job, 

Unable to purchase a flask, 
He chose for his mansion a tub, 

And lived by the scent of the cask. 

Heraclitus ne'er would deny 

To tipple and cherish his heart, 

And when he was maudlin he'd cry 
Because he had emptied his quart; 



208 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Though some are so foolish to think 
He wept at men's folly and vice, 

'Twas only his fashion to drink 
Till the liquor flowed out of his eyes. 

Democritus always was glad 

Of a bumper to cheer up his soul, 
And would laugh like a man that was mad, 

When over a good flowing bowl. 
As long as his cellar was stored, 

The liquor he'd merrily quaff; 
And when he was drunk as a lord, 

At those who were sober he'd laugh. 

Copernicus, too, like the rest, 

Believed there was wisdom in wine, 
And thought that a cup of the best 

Made reason the better to shine. 
With wine he'd replenish his veins 

And make his philosophy reel; 
Then fancied the world, like his brain, 

Turned round like a chariot wheel. 

Aristotle, that master of arts, 

Had been but a dunce without wine; 
And what we ascribe to his parts, 

Is due to the juice of the vine; 
His belly, most writers agree, 

Was as big as a watering-trough; 
He therefore leaped into the sea, 

Because he'd have liquor enough. 

Old Plato, the learned divine, 

He fondly to wisdom was prone; 
But had it not been for good wine, 

His merits had never been known. 
By wine we are generous made, 

It furnishes fancy with wings; 
Without it, we ne'er should have had 

Philosophers, poets or kings. 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 209 

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AEOUND? 



How stands the glass around? 
For shame! ye take no care, boys. 

How stands the glass around? 

Let mirth and wine abound; 

Let trumpets sound, 
The colours they are flying, boys; 

To fight, kill, or wound, 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys, 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why 
Should we be melancholy, boys? 

Why, soldiers, why? 

Whose business 'tis to die. 

What, sighing? fie! 
Drink on, and let's be jolly, boys, 

'Tis he, you and I, 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis but in vain, 
(I meant not to upbraid you, boys,) 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain; 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him that made us, boys, 

We're free from pain; 

But should we remain, 
A bottle and kind landlady 

Cures all again. 



MILITAKY TOAST. 



May the man who has lost an eye 
In the service of his country 



210 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Never see distress with the other; 

May he who has lost a hand, 

Never feel adversity with the other; 

May he who has lost a foot 

Never have cause to kick with the one remaining. 



COFFEY. 



Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils! 
Hail, juice benignant! 
To the unknown beloved, 
This is my good wishes. 



A TOAST. 



Here's to the man who loves his own wife, 

Who loves his own wife alone! 
For many a man loves another man's wife, 

When he ought to be loving his own! 

Here's to the man who kisses his own sweet-heart, 
Who kisses his own sweet-heart alone! 

For many a man kisses another man's sweet-heart, 
When he thinks he's kissing his own. 



A long life and a merry one, 
A quick death and a happy one, 

A sweet girl and a pretty one, 
A cold bottle and another one. 



Here's a health to me and mine, 
Not forgetting thee and thine; 
And when thee and thine 



TOASTS AND CONVIVIAL SONGS. 



211 



Come to see me and mine, 
May me and mine make thee and thine 
As welcome as thee and thine 
Have made me and mine. 



If with water you fill up your glasses, 
You'll never write anything wise; 

For wine is the horse of Parnassus, 
Which hurries a bard to the skies. 



Here's to the one I love, 
M*ay that one be thee; 

Here's to the one you love, 
May that one be me. 



Here's to you all, boys, 
Luck, love, and friendship! 

Here's to you all, boys, 
But all the sorrows skip. 



Here's a health to all these that I love, 

And here's to all those that love me; 
Here's a health to all those that love those that I love, 

And here's to all those that love those that love me. 



/ 

PART VIII. 

Epigrams. 

77m 



WHAT AN EPIGRAM IS. 



What an epigram is? A dwarfish whole; 
Its body brevity and wit its soul. 

— S. T. Coleridge. 



An epigram should, like a pin, conjoint 

In its small compass show both head and point. 



ON LIFE. 



Life! we've been long together, 

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; 

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear — 

Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time, 
Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

— Mrs. Barbauld. 



The gardener's rule applies to youth and age, 
When young sow wild oats, but when old grow sage. 

— H. J. Byron. 



216 AFTEK-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

ON A BAD SINGER 



Swans sing before they die: 'twere no bad thing 
Did certain persons die before they sing. 

— S. T. Coleridge. 



ON GOOD MUSIC AND BAD DANCING. 



How ill the motion with the music suits; 
So Orpheus play'd, and like them danced the brutes. 

— Congreve. 



ON AN ALDEEMAN. 



That he was born it cannot be denied, 

He ate, drank, slept, talk'd politics, and died. 

— John Cunningham. 



ON MARRIAGES IN HEAVEN. 



Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean, 

"What reason can be given, 
Since marriage is a holy thing, 

That there is none in heaven?" 

"There are no women," he replies. 

She quick returns the jest: — 
"Women there are, but I'm afraid 

They cannot find a priest." 

— Robert Dodsley. 



EPIGRAMS. 217 

ON A LAME BEGGAR 



"I am unable," yonder beggar cries, 

"To stand or move;" if he says true he lies. 

— Dr. Donne. 



Fortune, they say, doth give too much to many, 
But yet she never gave enough to any. 

— Sir John Harrington. 



Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason? 
If it doth prosper: none dare call it treason. 

— Sir John Harrington. 



One asked me where the roses grew? 

I bade him not go seek; 
But forthwith bade my Julia shew 

A bud in either cheek. 

— Herrick. 



THE KACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT. 



I make no haste to have my numbers read; 
Seldom comes glory till a man is dead. 

— Herrick. 



ON MODESTY. 



As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright; 
Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, 
And she who means nc mischief does it all. 

— Aaron Hill. 



218 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Tender-handed stroke a nettle, 

And it stings you for your pains, 
Grasp it as a man of mettle, 

And it soft as silk remains. 
'Tis the same with common natures, 

Use them kindly, they rebel: 
But be rough as nutmeg-graters, 

And the rogues will use you well. 

— Aaron Hill. 



TO THE DUKE OF BEDFOKD, ON HIS GEOUP OF 
THE THEEE GKACES, BY CANOVA. 



'Tis well in stone to have three Graces, 
With lovely limbs, and lovely faces; 
But better far, and not in stone, 
To have the three combined in One. 

— Frederick Howard. 



An epigram should be an arrow 
Pointed and narrow; 
Or like a sword, 
A bright sharp word; 
Or — as it was in classic days, 
A spark — a flash — a meteor blaze, 
Enlightening but not burning with its rays. 

— Klopstock. 



CONVEKSATIOK 



Conversation is but carving: 
Give no more to every guest 
Than he's able to digest; 
Give him always of the prime 



EPIGRAMS. 219 

And but little at a time: 
Carve to all but just enough, 
Let them neither starve nor stuff: 
And, that you may have your due, 
Let your neighbors carve for you. 

— Lockhart's Life of Scott. 



THE SURPRISE. 



Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, 
That from this hour I shall not love thee more. 
"What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow?" 
Because I can not love thee more — than now! 

— Thomas Moore. 



A JOKE VERSIFIED. 



"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, 
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake — ■ 

It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife" — 
"Why, so it is, father — whose wife shall I take?" 

— Thomas Moore. 



I loved thee beautiful and kind, 
And plighted an eternal vow: — 

So altered are thy face and mind, 
'Twere perjury to love thee now. 

— Lord Nugent. 



A GENERAL RULE. 



Sir, I admit your general rule 
That every poet is a fool; 



220 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

But you yourself may serve to show it, 
That every fool is not a poet. 

— Alexander Pope. 



BIBO. 

When Bibo thought fit from this world to retreat, 
As full of champagne as an egg's full of meat, 
He turned in the boat, and to Charon he said: 
"I will be row'd back, for I am not yet dead." 
"Trim the boat and sit quiet," stern Charon replied, 
"You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died." 

— M. Prior. 



ON J. W. WARD, 
AFTERWARDS EARL OF DUDLEY. 



Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it, 
He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it. 

— Rogers. 



THE HISTORY OF A CASE, SHORTLY REPORTED 
BY A MASTER IN CHANCERY. 



Mr. Leach made a speech, 

Angry, neat, and wrong; 
Mr. Hart, on the other part, 

Was prosy, dull, and long. 

Mr. Bell spoke very well, 

Though nobody knew what about; 
Mr. Trower talked for an hour, 

Sat down fatigued and hot. 



EPIGRAMS. 221 

Mr. Parker made the case darker, 

Which was dark enough without; 
Mr. Cook quoted his book, 

And the Chancellor said, "I doubt." 

—Sir G. Rose. 



LOVE AND SEASON. 



Could I her faults remember, 

Forgetting every charm, 
Soon would impartial reason 

The tyrant love disarm: 
But when enraged I number 

Each failing of her mind, 
Love still suggests each beauty, 

And sees — while reason's blind. 

— R. B. Sheridan. 



STOLEN KISSES. 



Whilst thus a few kisses I steal, 

Dear Chloris, you gravely complain; 

If resentment you really do feel, 
Pray give me my kisses again. 

—Philip Smyth. 



MY LOVE AND I. 



My love and I for kisses played; 

She would keep stakes, I was content; 
But when I won she would be paid, 

This made me ask her what she meant; 
Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, 

Take your own kisses, give me mine again. 

— William Strode. 



222 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

ON A GENTLEWOMAN" WALE3NG IN THE 
SNOW. 



I saw fair Chioris walk alone 
When feathered rain came softly down, 
And Love descended from his tower 
To court her in a silver shower. 
The wanton snow flew to her breast 
Like little birds into their nest, 
And, overcome with whiteness there 
For grief is thaw'd into a tear; 
Thence falling to her garment's hem, 
To deck her froze into a gem. 

—Dr. W. Strode. 



ON THE VOWELS. 



We are little airy creatures 
All of different voice and features. 
One of us in glass is set, 
One of us you'll find in jet, 
T'other you may see in tin, 
And the fourth a box within. 
If the fifth you should pursue, 
It can never fly from you. 

—Swift. 



THE PAEITY. 



A miss is still, perhaps, as good 
As a mile, though it's plain to see 

That misses are not by any means 
As good as they used to be. —Truth. 



EPIGRAMS. 223 



ON A GIKDLE. 



That which her slender waist confined, 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 
It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pole which held the lovely deer. 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
Did all within this circle move. 
A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; 
Give me but what this ribbon bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

— Edmund Waller. 



A LEGAL KHAPSODY. 



Fee simple and simple fee, 

And all the fees entail; 
But of all fees, the fee for me, 

Just give me the female! 

— Joseph Wheless. 



AMY WENTWOKTH. 



O, rank is good, and gold is fair, 

And high and low mate ill; 
But love has never known a law 

Beyond its own sweet will! 

—J. G. Whittier. 



224 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

A WOMAN'S WILL. 



The man's a fool, who thinks by force or skill 
To stem the torrent of a woman's will ; 
For if she will, she will, you may depend on 't, 
And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on 't. 



ON LOED CHESTEEFIELD'S LETTEES TO 
HIS SON. 



Vile Stanhope! Demons blush to tell 

In twice two hundred places, 
Has shown his son the road to Hell 

Escorted by the Graces. 
But little did th' ungenerous lad 

Concern himself about them; 
For, base, degenerate, meanly bad, 

He sneaked to Hell without them. 



ON A LIAE. 



Charles keeps a secret well, or I'm deceived, 
For nothing Charles can say will be believed. 



ON A DINNEE OUT. 



Jack boasts he never dines at home, 
With reason, too, no doubt; 

In truth, Jack never dines at all 
Unless invited out. 



EPIGRAMS. 

ON A CERTAIN MAN'S YEEACITY. 



He boasts about the truth, I've heard, 
And vows he'd never break it; 

Why, zounds! a man must keep his word 
When nobody will take it. 



ON A LOVING COUPLE. 



O'Leary was as poor as Job, 
But love and poverty can please us; 

He saw the Widow Bonna-robe, 
And lov'd — for she was rich as Croesus. 

Mutual the love their bosoms own; 

Sincere was he, and none could doubt her. 
She loved him for himself alone, 

And he — he could not live without her. 



ON WOMAN AND HYMEN. 



Whether tall men, or short men, are best, 
Or bold men or modest and shy men, 

I can't say, but I this can protest, 
All the fair are in favor of Hy-men. 



ON EVENING DRESS. 



When dress'd for the evening, girls, now-a-days, 
Scarce an atom of dress on them leave; 

Nor blame them — for what is an Evening Dress, 
But a dress that is suited for Eve? 



226 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

WRITTEN ON A LOOKING-GLASS. 



( I change, and so do women, too; 
But I reflect, which women never do.' 



ANSWER BY A LADY 



If women reflected, oh scribbler, declare 

What man, faithless man, would be bless'd by the fair? 



ON DRESS v. DINNER, 



What is the reason, can you guess, 

When men are poor, and women thinner? 

So much do they for dinner dress, 
There's nothing left to dress for dinner. 



ON A LADY'S WEARING A PATCH. 



That little patch upon your face 
Would seem a foil to one less fair; 

On you it hides a charming grace, 
And you, in pity, placed it there. 



MY WIFE AND I. 



As my wife and I at the window one day, 
Stood watching a man with a monkey, 

A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy," 
Who was driving a stout little donkey. 



EPIGRAMS. 227 

To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, 
"There's a relation of yours in that carriage." 

To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, 
"Ah, yes, a relation — by marriage!" 



AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING. 



"Harry, I can not think," says Dick, 
"What makes my ankles grow so thick." 
"You do not recollect," says Harry, 
"How great a calf they have to carry." 



ON ANOTHER. 



Said vain Andrew Scalph, "My initials, I guess, 
Are well known; so I sign all my poems A. S." 
Said Jerrold, "I own you're a reticent youth, 
For that's telling only two-thirds of the truth.' 



A CHANGE OF TENANT. 



The house a lawyer once enjoy'd 
Now to a smith doth pass: 

How naturally the iron age 
Succeeds the age of brass. 



ON A LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND. 



Whence comes it that, in Clara's face, 

The lily only has its place? 
Is it because the absent rose 

Has gone to paint her husband's nose? 






228 AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 

Jack eating stale cheese did say, 
"Like Samson I my thousands slay! 
"I vow," quoth Roger, "so you do, 
And with the self-same weapon, too. 



LENT AND BORROWED. 



To the church I once went, 
But I grieved and I sorrow'd; 

For the season was Lent, 

And the sermon was borrowed. 



THE COUETIEK AND THE SCHOLAR. 



A haughty courtier, meeting in the streets 
A scholar, him thus insolently greets: 
"Base men to take the wall I ne'er permit;" 
The scholar said "I do," and gave him it. 



THE EIRST PUN 



When Adam in bliss. 

Asked Eve for a kiss, 

She sweetly puckered up her coc, 

And said, I don't care A-dam if you do. 



THE FRESHMAN'S WOE. 



Non paratus dixit Freshie, 
With a sad and troubled look, 

Omne rectus, prof, respondit 
And nihil scripsit in his book. 



EPIGRAMS. 

NOVELS KEVIEWED IN EHYME. 



The "Yellow Aster" has gone to seed, 

"Dodo" is out of sight, 
The "Heavenly Twins" have gone to h 

On "The Ships that Pass in the Night. 



IN THKEE ACTS. 



ACT I. 

Little dreaming they soon would meet, 
She smiled upon him in the street 
From her cosy window seat. 
Maid one. 

ACT II. 

At the hop to the music's beat 
Moved in time their hearts and feet. 
Later they found a cool retreat. 
Maid won. 

ACT III. 

Pealed the organ loud and sweet- 
Bride and groom and their elite- 
All their happiness complete. 
Made one. 



A FALLEN IDOL. 



I dashed cold water in her face, 
Because the girl had fainted; 

And found, alas, in woman's case 
She's not as she is painted. 



230 



AFTER-DINNER POETRY AND SENTIMENT. 



A PRESSED LEAF. 



"You are an autumn leaf," said he, 
"My arms are the book, you know, 

I place the leaf within the book, you see, 
And tenderly press it — so." 

The maiden looked up with glance demure, 
And blushes her fair cheeks wore 

As she softly whispered, "The leaf, I'm sure, 
Needs pressing a little more." 







Wfi 



A collection of after-dinner speeches, addresses, and 
miscellaneous writings of Wm. C. Sprague, contain- 
ing about 215 pages, handsomely bound, deckle edges, 
gilt top. Price, $1.50, delivered. 

William C. Sprague is president of the Sprague Cor- 
respondence School of Law, Detroit, and editor-in-chief 
of The Collector and Commercial Lawyer, and of The 
Law Student's Helper, and author of several books 
that have proved exceptionally popular among the law- 
yers and young men of America. As an after-dinner 
and occasional speaker he ranks among the very best 
of the younger men now before the public. 

This collection embraces speeches to Lawyers, Credit- 
Men, Public School Teachers, Churches, Societies, Ma- 
sons, College Fraternities, Editors, Chautauqua Assem- 
blies, Newsboys, Young Men's Clubs, Miscellaneous 
After-Dinner Speeches, etc., etc. 

They are not merely »such speeches as you will de- 
light to read— they are that, and more ; they are the 
kind of speeches that will help you when . you have 
similar occasions to prepare for. They are the kind of 
speeches that have life, vim, vigor, virility, spirit in 
them, the kind that please and win an audience. They 
teem with sound sense, brilliant wit, humor that is 
catching, F and eloquence of the highest order. 

The book will please you, and help you in a hundred 
emergencies. Order at once. 



S The Collector Publishing Company, 

§ DETROIT, MICHIGAN. 



Valuable 



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fiawley's Law of Arrest.— Price, 75c. 

This is a little book of 70 pages by John G. Hawley, the distinguished legal 
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the liabilities of officers and citizens for false imprisonment, warrants— their form 
and when necessary and when not necessary to the legality of the arrest, rights of 
prisoners, etc. Thousands of copies have been sold to the Police Departments 
throughout the country, to lawyers and law students and to the general public. 

Hawley 's Law for Tenants— Price, 75c. A book of 78 pages bound in leather, 
explaining clearly the mutual rights and obligations of landlord and tenant in such 
plain, simple language that every person interested may understand the law on 
the subject and guard himself against entering into an improvident contract. It 
is published with a view of furnishing a safe guide to the layman as well as a good 
reference book to the lawyer and the law student. 

Hawley's Law for Land Buyers— Price, 75c. This little book contains 56 
pages, and treats f uliy of the law of Real Property as met within every day trans- 
actions in real estate, it having to do with the contract, the title, the deed, the 
mortgage, fixtures, right of possession, warranties, homestead, record, etc. Every 
dealer in the land should be possessed of this little treatise. Bound in leather. 

Shall I Study Law ?— Price, 50c. By one who has tried. Paper bound, 69 
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Oar National Charters— Price, 50c. This book contains the Declaration of 
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Ordinance of 1787, the Monroe Doctrine, and the Emancipation Proclamation. 

Requirements for Admission to the Bar— Price, 50c. Giving the rules and 
regulations of all the States and Territories. 

Mow to Prepare for a Civil Service Examination— Price, 50c. Paper, 100 
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How to Build Up a Successful Commercial Law Practice— Price, fee. Paper, 
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The Vest Pocket Parliamentary Pointer— Price, 25c. This little book answers 
at a glance the intricate questions of Parliamentary Law, without diagrams or 
reference marks to confuse or mislead. It is so small it can be concealed in the 
hand, and referred to during a meeting without attracting attention. It contains 
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The Business Builder— Price, $1.00. Containing a list of the prominent for- 
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cities. Exactly what the Attorney, who wants to build up a big business in this 
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and a few postage stamps you can materially increase your clientage. 

The Collector Publishing 60., 

PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS, y DETROIT, MICH. 



{^ hoosing a 
s pecialty. 




fe^ftr W<S9m ^itf&J Wdffffrx \L. rf Sflm yA/ t^tffcr l.itiftc wtfv ^ftm fc^Cw 
MWm J&HW Jsi&w M&3W J&Sw Af mf M&W B&jw 4P iWflp 



THIS is the title of a book- 
let containing eleven ar- 
ticles, treating of eleven dif- 
ferent specialties in the prac- 
tice of law, and the various 
considerations that a man 
should weigh in determining 
upon any particular line of 
practice as his specialty, such 
as education and special quali- 
fications required, peculiarities 
of the practice, if any, nature 
of the work, the class of clients 
to be dealt with, compensation 
to be expected, etc. These 
articles were written by emi- 
nent men in their particular 
line of practice, and first ap- 
peared in The Law Student's 
Helper, where they attracted 
much attention throughout the 
country, and were widely 
quoted. The articles and their 
authors are as follows : 



Criminal Law, by John G. Hawley, 
one of the authors of Hawley & 
McGregor on Criminal Law, De- 
troit, Mich. 

Mining: Law, by John B. Clayberg, 
Helena, Montana. 

Patent Law, by Albert H. Walker, 
author of Walker on Patents, Hart- 
ford, Ct. 

Medical Jurisprudence, by Marshall D. 
Ewell, M. D., LL. D., Dean Kent Col- 
lege of Law, Chicago. 

Real Estate Law, by Darius H. Pin- 

frey, author of Pingrey on Real 
roperty, Bloomington, 111. 

Commercial Law, by Hon. Daniel E. 
Tenny, Madison,Wis., late of Tenny, 
McConnell & Coffeen, Chicago. 

Law Teaching:, by Prof. Edwin H. 
Woodruff, of the Cornell Law 
School, Ithaca, N. Y. 

Insurance Law, by D. Ostrander, of 
Chicago. 

Admiralty Law, by Martin Clark, of 
Clinton & Clark, Buffalo, N. Y. 

Corporation Law, by Charles F. Math- 
ewson, of Strong, Harmon & 
Mathewson, of New York. 

General Practice, by John B. Green, 
of Cole & Green, of New York. 

This list of papers from writers of 
such standing and ability, cannot fail to 
contain much of interest to every law- 
yer and law student. 



Price, 50c, delivered. 

THE COLLECTOR 



PUBLISHING 



CO., 

—DETROIT, fllCH. 



FOSTER'S FIRSTBOOK OF PRACTICE, 

JUST ISSUED BY THE 

Collector Publishing Co., Detroit, Hich. 



About 500 Pages, Full Law Sheep. PKICE, $4.00, DELIVERED. 

The Book is best described by its Preface, which we qaote entire : 

PREFACE: 

FOR many years the author has felt that there ought to be a practice book 
especially adapted to the needs of young lawyers, containing answers to 
the numberless questions arising in the practice of the law, and direc- 
tions, suggestions, and definite information along practical lines that are not 
contained in law books generally, or, if contained in them, so hidden as not to 
be of easy access. Questions relating to court practice, and particularly with 
reference to the commencement of actions, are fraught with difficulty to the 
student entering upon the practice of the law, however thorough his prepara- 
tion in its theory. This book is offered as a practical guide and handbook that 
will serve to meet the need so long felt for something that will enable the young 
lawyer to commence and carry on his cases with reasonable security against 
making some one or more of the many fatal blunders which young practitioners 
are liable to make and from which old practitioners are not entirely exempt. 
In preparing this book I have purposely avoided, as far as possible, the discus- 
sion of substantive law. Necessarily, I have stated the well established rules 
of law and practice, but, where I have done so, I have not entered into a discus- 
sion of the reasons upon which such rules are founded, my object being to pro- 
vide a book that should point out the course to be pursued in given cases, and 
the rules to be followed, the dangers to be expected, and the methods of avoid- 
ing them. 

In the citation of authorities reference has been made to leading cases only, 
or to cases which most clearly illustrate or strongly fortify the position taken. 

Each case has been carefully selected with regard to its special fitness for 
this purpose. The style of the book, I believe, to be justified by its purpose and 
the necessity of impressing by the most direct and forcible language the im- 
portance of the points made. 

Each form of action is discussed separately and in order, from the prelim- 
inary Steps necessary before the commencement of the action to its terminating 
steps. Pleading and practice under the common law, under the code and in 
equity, are treated after this manner. All special proceedings, such as attach- 
ment, arrest, garnishment, mandamus, habeas corpus, etc., are fully discussed 
and the line of procedure in each carefully outlined. 

Carefully selected forms are introduced in their appropriate places, for some 
of which I am indebted to the well-known works of Chitty, Story and Oliver. 

I may be pardoned for expressing the belief that there is much contained in 
this book in the way of practical suggestion and information that will not be 
found in any other book. I send it forth as the result of experience, and as 
such a book as would have saved me endless time and confusion, had it been in 
my possession in the first few years of my practice. 

Lemuel H. Foster. 

Detroit, Michigan, December xst, 1897. 




Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. 

Group picture giving all the Justices who ever sat on the 
Supreme Bench of the United States, with the date of their 
birth, death and appointment, and the State from which ap- 
pointed, making a pictorial history of the court. A fine arto- 
type, making a picture 19x24 inches, printed on heavy paper, 
with wide margins. This picture is the work of the celebrated 
artist Bierstadt, and is printed in steel plate ink. Very hand- 
some. $7.00 delivered. 

One Hundred and Forty-four Eminent American, English 
and Canadian Lawyers. 

Two fine engravings, 28x38 inches, with each portrait 2fx3$ 
inches. With these engravings go a two-volume work with the 
Life Sketches, Thoughts, etc., of the lawyers whose portraits 
are given in the engravings. Regular price, $15.00. Our price 
$10.50 delivered. 
The Present Supreme Court of the United States. 

This is a photograph, 14jx20£ inches, mounted on boards 
20x24 inches. Gives the United States Supreme Court as now 
constituted. Price, $3.00. 

Blackstone. 

Steel engraving by John Sartain. 12x15 inches, printed on 
heavy paper, with wide margins. This is a very fine portrait, 
but we are able to furnish it while our supply lasts, for $3.00 
delivered. 

Joseph H. Choate. 

Photogravure, 8x6$ inches, printed on heavy paper, with 
wide margins. $1.00. 

Frederick R. Coudert. 

Companion piece to the Choate portrait. $1.00. 

The Present Justices of the United States Supreme Court. 

Half-tones, each 5x3J inches, on good paper, with ample 
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Chief Justice Marshall. 

Full length portrait, 16ixl0£ inches. Very handsome. 
Price, $2.00. 

Chancellor James Kent. 

Fine steel engraving, 15x10 inches, printed on fine heavy 
paper, 23x30 inches. Very handsome office portrait. Price, 
$5.00, delivered. 



COLLECTOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

Detroit, Michigan. 



t 



„ 1 



Jurisdiction. 



Joseph H. Vance. 

Law Librarian 

of the University 

of Michigan. 



99999 



We have made arrangements with Prof. Vance, the author of this little book 
on Jurisdiction, by which we have become the owners of the last edition of it. 
The book is used in the Law Department of the University of Michigan. It is 
built for students and practicing lawyers. The following headings indicate its 
contents : 

JURISDICTION Defined, Judicial Power, Courts Distinguished, Elements of 
Jurisdiction, Jurisdiction of the subject-matter. Jurisdiction of the person, 
Points to be Determined Before Commencing an Action at Law, Process, 
Summons, When Suit is Considered as Commenced, To Whom Process Should 
be Issued. How Service Must be Made, Service on Corporations, Attempt to 
Avoid Service, Officer Serving His Own Process, The Return and the Object of 
the Return, Amending the Return, The Abuse of Process, Appearance, Special 
Appearance, How Defendant May Confer Jurisdiction, Appearance by Attor- 
ney, Appearance of Infants, Appearance by Corporations, Effect of With- 
drawal of Plea, etc. 

PAPER, $1.00. 






EDERAL JURISDICTION 
AND PROCEDURE. 



BY 

Hon. Wm, A. Maury, 

Ex-Assistant 
Attorney-General 
of the United States. 



This work is a monograph of some seventy-five pages, explaining fully and 
clearly the subject of Federal Jurisdiction and Procedure as modified by Acts 
of Congress of March 3d, 1891, and March 3d, 1887, corrected by the Act of 
August 13th, 1888. To these acts have been added the several provisions of the 
Constitution bearing on the Judicial Power, and certain provisions of the Re- 
vised Statutes appertaining to that power and regulating the Appellate power 
of the Supreme Court, together with the rules of that Court which supplement 
the last mentioned provisions. 

This book is used in the Columbian University Law School, in which 
Gen. Maury is one of the faculty. 



Contains a very valuable Appendix, giving Forms. 



PAPER, $1.00. 



The Collector 
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DETROIT, n!CH. 



Eloquence and Repartee in the 
American Congress . . . 

By Win. C. SPRAOUE. 



V. 




A book in which the editor has collected many of the most inter- 
esting and notable events of a particularly notable Congress, 
viz : the Forty-Second Congress. This Congress sat during the 
famous Reconstruction Period, and the ability of its members, 
together with the importance of the questions then agitating 
the country, united to produce many exciting scenes, many 
great debates, many flights of eloquence, and many flashes of wit and repartee 
between the members, among whom were some of the. greatest men whose 
names illumine our history. To the student of American history, and to the 
student of eloquence, this book will have an absorbing interest. Illustrated 
with numerous half-tone portraits. 

Handsomely <JJ I tZf\ 

bound in Cloth, S> 1 «OU. 

THE COLLECTOR PUBLISHING CO., 

Publishers and Booksellers, DETROIT, fUCH. 



Flashes of Wit from 

Bench and Bar ... By Wra c Sfnvu - 

"Much given to speech and seasoned anecdote, 
And wit and repartee of Bench and Bar." 

— Valentine. 

THIS is one of the brightest books that has been issued in recent 
months. The nature of its contents is amply indicated by its title. 
Every page literally flashes and scintillates with the ready wit of 
some leader of the bar or some brilliant occupant of the bench. Every 
one of its two hundred pages contains many hearty laughs for the reader. 
Such a fund of anecdote and story will not be found within the covers of 
any other book now on the market. It contains some of the purest, 
brightest and happiest examples of wit and humor ever collected by an 
appreciative editor. One who often speaks in public will find these stories 
mirth-provoking, and every one knows the value of a taking story properly 
interjected into a public speech, or in conversation. 

Handsomely bonnd in Cloth. 
PRICE, 81.50 DELIVERED. 

Address, THE COLLECTOR PUBLISHING CO., Detroit, Mich. 



Speeches and 
Speech Making 

Bv JUDQE J. W. DONOVAN. 



No book of interest to lawyers, law students, or young 
men generally, published within recent years, has obtained 
a more immediate and wide-spread popularity than Judge 
Donovan's " Speeches and Speech Making." It seems to 
have made an instant hit. This is doubtless because it is a 
practical book, and gives ideas, suggestions and helps both 
as to preparing and delivering speeches. Judge Donovan 
has sought in writing this book to give young men who 
are ambitious to become speakers something that will be 
of practical help to them in attaining that end. In ad- 
dition to the ideas and suggestions as to the preparation 
and delivery of speeches, it contains examples of speeches 
for different occasions, and altogether contains many helps 
for one wishing to become a successful speaker. Men who 
are frequently called upon to make speeches, and what 
lawyer, young or old, is not, will find this book valuable. 
A man who intends or expects to make many speeches 
cannot begin his preparation too early, for when called 
upon he has no time to prepare, and must depend upon the 
preparation of times past. This book will aid one to prepare 
for such occasions. The sooner a man begins to prepare, 
the better, for he cannot become a good public speaker 
at a bound. Public speakers are made as well as born. 

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH 
$1.50, DELIVERED. — 

Address 

The Collector Publishing Co., 

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....A New Students' Book on.... 



s~ 



Criminal Law 

BY 

JOHN G. HAWLEY, 

Professor of Criminal Law in the Detroit College of Law, first 
Editor of the American Criminal Reports, and author of numer- 
ous standard works on separate, branches of the Criminal Law; 



malcolm McGregor, 

Also of the Faculty of the Detroit College of Law. 

This book is the outgrowth of years of study, practice and teach- 
ing of the criminal law, and is by men who are acknowledged masters 
of their subject. 

It was written for the use of students rather than practitioners, 
and so deals with ^principles instead of mere precedents. Mr. Hawley 
and Mr. McGregor are both deep students of this subject and present it 
in a clear, systematic and scientific manner, bringing out reasons and 
principles in bold relief. They have not, however, disdained the use 
of precedents for illustrative purposes, but principles are always upper- 
most, as they should be in all books for students, if not for practitioners. 

Adopted in eight law schools, and the first edition exhausted 
within less than a year, which is powerful evidence of its superiority 
and popularity. 

THE BEST BOOK ON THE SUBJECT FOR STUDENTS, 

nDOUt JOU I agCS. Bound in Law Sheep, 3.0O 

The Collector Publishing Co., 

Booksellers «nd Publishers, DETROIT, MICH. 



Jflftodcl ffiatifltiet Speeches. 



m 

famous 

Banquet 
Speakers. 

taidsonely Sound to 
Clotb. 

Delivered, $1.50, 



Here we offer you the finest collection of after-dinner 
speeches ever gathered together in one book, for they 
are not a collection of the utterances of one man, but 
are the best efforts of many men famous at the banquet 
board, such as Thomas A. Hendricks, Senator Vilas, 
James G. Jenkins, George W. Wakefield, Thomas F. 
Bayard, Gen. J. C. Black, Rev. Win. E. Park, Dr. Hirsch, 
John B. Green, Henry Wollman, Joseph C. Hendrix, 
Judge Grosscup, Senator Foraker, Chauncey M. Depew, 
and many others "of infinite jest, of most excellent 
fancy and flashes of merriment that were wont to set 
the tables on a roar." The speeches here given cover an 
infinite variety of subjects and occasions— bar banquets, 
political banquets, occasional celebrations, and all kinds 
and conditions of society gatherings. The after-dinner 
speaker, or one who would be such,, wants thia book. 



Cbc Collector $ uHisbing Co*, 

— Detroit, ffiicb. 
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LAW BOOKS 

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BOOKS 



...BY... 

JUDGE J. W. DOttOVAM 



BOOKS THAT MAY BE TERMED 
SIDE-LIGHTS ON THE PRACTICE 
OF LAW^INVALUABLE AND IN- 
TENSELY INTERESTING. XXX 

17,000 SOLD. 

^p j. ' f"V*« 4 +4+ Contains the gist of cases won by tact, courage 

1 ClCl 111 >uOUrI and eloquence, with trial rules and able ad' 

============ vice of ingenious advocates and trial lawyers. 

Fourth revised and enlarged edition. Sheep, 51.00, 

NEW AND VERY DRAMATIC. 

Ql^'11 * TVm^I© Contains a vaf i c ty of civil and criminal cases 
O.K111 111 1 x iCllS won by the art of advocates, with some of the 
t skill of Webster, Choate, Beach, Butler, Curtis, 

Fountain, and others, given in. sketches of their work and trial stories. 
Sheep, $1.00. 

FORTY GREAT TRIALS. 

Modern Jury Trials and Advocates ancTeioquenTe 

of a hundred 

famous lawyers, as brought out in the forty great trials of twentyfive years. 
Intensely interesting to the student of eloquence and the art of trying cases. 
Fourth edition, 700 pages. Law Sheep, $4.50. 



"Judge Donovan is the author of those exceptionally popular 
books, 'Modern Jury Trials,' 'Tact in Court,' and 'Skill in Trials.' 
We are reliably informed that over 40,000 copies of these works have 
been sold, which affords the most convincing proof of their sterling 
worth and great popularity."— The Guide. 



Sent Postpaid on Receipt of Price. 

The Collector Publishing Co., 

PUBLISHERS and -* * ., M . , 

BOOKSELLERS DetrOlt ? f^lCl} 



Popular Series 



op 



Celebrated A 



tnencan 



Trials 



Vh, 



Webster 
Y/furder 



ase. 



THE Collector Publishing Co. will bring 
out within the next few months a series 
of great trials, including generally the 
story of the case, the examination of the wit- 
nesses and the speeches of counsel. The first 
of this series is now ready. It is the great 
trial of Prof. Webster, of Harvard, for the 
murder of Dr. Parkman. There is no more 
famous case in all the history of American 
criminal law. It is not only a most interest- 
ing case to read,'however, although the story 
is enthralling, the examination of the wit- 
nesses noteworthy, while the speeches of the 
great lawyers in the case hold the reader's 
interest to the end. It is a great authority 
in the criminal law and procedure, and prob- 
ably no case ever tried is so frequently cited 
in the books. The report that we now bring 
out was prepared by George Bemis, Esq., one 
of the counsel for the Commonwealth, and 
is, therefore, authoritative and well pre- 
pared. One for whom celebrated trials and 
the speeches of great men of the bar have 
any interest should not fail to add this book 
to his library. 



POPULAR EDITION, a VOLS., <t. - n 
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The Comic 



acicsione 




By Gilbert A'Beckett. 



THIS is a book that was written more for the entertainment 
than the instruction of lawyers and law students, and the 
author being a true humorist, has made it very interesting. 
It is amazing to note how many opportunities for fun he has found 
in the Commentaries. It may be as dry as " the dry bones of the 
law " to one who has never studied law, but to the lawyer and law 
student it is one of the most interesting and amusing books ever 
written. To the lawyer or law student, however, it will be found 
to be more than merely amusing. It is also a practical aid or sup- 
plement to the study of Blackstone. It is remarkable how thor- 
oughly a point of law may be impressed on one's mind by a joke, 
and A'Beckett's Comic Blackstone is full of instances of this kind. 
It contains many hearty laughs and much good law, and no lawyer 
or law student who has a touch of humor in him can fail to appre- 
ciate it highly. 
Price, handsomely bound in cloth, $1.25. 



THE COLLECTOR 
PUBLISHING CO., 



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DETROIT, HICH. 



Study 



Law 



The Sprague Correspondence School 
of Law, of Detroit, Michigan, pre- 
pares you right in your own home 
for examination for admission to 
the bar. It selects the proper text 
books; it maps out the proper course; 
it helps you over the rough places; 
it shows you how to learn every- 
thing worth learning, and how to 
avoid the non-essential matter; it 
gives you thorough 
examinations, and 
fits you in every 
way for active prac- 
tice. For those 
who do not feel pre 
pared to take up a 
regular course in 
law, it furnishes a 
Preparatory Course 
of three months, which every 
man and woman, and every 
boy and girl whether propos- 
ing to practise law or not, 
should study. It also fur- 
nishes a Business Law Course, 
the most thorough course on 
Business Law that can be had 
anywhere. Whether or not 

you desire to practice law, you should 
enroll yourself as a student in this 
School, and use your spare moments 
in useful study along practical lines. 
The law forms an exceedingly interest- 
ing study, and is a splendid course for 
general culture. A handsome cata- 
logue with testimonials from prac- 
tising attorneys, free. Remember 
that our system only requires that 
you devote to it your spare moments. 

Address Sprague Correspondence School of Law, 



Home 



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You can't keep up with the times and with your competitors without it. 

She Collector ana Commercial ftawyer 

Aims to fill your needs in this respect exactly. It gives you all the 
news. It gives you new ideas and helpful suggestions. As the official 
organ of the Michigan Press Association says, "The Collector and 
Commercial Lawyer is the Bible of the collection and commercial law 
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Ogden Ellis. Every man needs his class paper. The Collector and 
Commercial Lawyer has no rival in its class. 

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i*lL&w Student's 



A Monthly Magazine 
-7^- — " w - ^^ — • — — ~f ~ — - for Law Students and 

Young Men Generally. 



Helper. 



This magazine interests law students because it gives them practical help 
and suggestions about their work ; because it gives them every month a variety 
of interesting reading matter selected with particular regard to their need-; ami 
to their tastes ; because it discusses matters from their standpoint, and so has 
made itself recognized as the especial magazine for and organ of the law students 
of the country. 

Among its special departments are: "Short Talks on Current Events of 
Interest to Law Students," " Law School Notes," giving all the news from the law- 
schools; " Law Students' Societies," giving the doings of the law students' societies 
of the country, with suggestions and helps as to the work of such societies; 
"Questions Answered and Difficulties Met for Students of the Law ;'' "The Self 
Examiner," giving questions and answers selected from bar examinations. In 
addition to these special departments it gives every month a great variety of 
interesting and practical miscellaneous articles. 

That it is popular with its subscribers and worthy of your patronage is 
evidenced by the fact that it has attained a greater circulation than any other 
legal magazine in the country. Its editor-in-chief is Win. C. Sprague, president 
of the Sprague Correspondence School of Law, and its assistant editor is Griffith 
Ogden Ellis, vice-principal of that school. They know what law students want. 
You will like the magazine. 



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Quiz !=— Quiz i— Quiz i 



DO YOU KNOW of any better method of impressing upon your mind what 
you have read than questions and answers ? We do not, and this method 
has been endorsed by all thinkers since Socrates. And how much more 
valuable it is when questions have been selected by a master, so that they cover 
just the points that you should remember, and bring out all the phases of each 
subject, many of which you would never notice in merely studying the text-book, 
and show its many sides and in different lights in a way that is most beneficial to 
the student, but which is foreign to the nature of text-books. But a properly 
conducted Quiz should not be a mere aid to the memory. It should not be con- 
fined to showing the student how much or how little he knows. It should be 
instructive in the highest sense. Naturally, the answering of the questions com- 
pels the student to both remember and think, but the questions should also be so 
framed as to teach him to think, as by suggesting new phases of the subject and 
new lines of thought, and by calling for reasons and principles as well as mere 
rules. The questioner should never be satisfied with a mere parrot-like repetition 
of the text-book, and the questions should be so framed that that will not be 
sufficient. 

With these principles in mind we have had prepared a series of quiz books 
which we call the Quizzer Series. That they are helpful to the students, we have 
the highest evidence, viz. : large sales and students who have bought one book, 
coming back for subsequent numbers. Each book consists of two parts, Part I 
containing the questions and being interleaved with blank pages on which the stu- 
dent may write his answers, and Part II containing the correct answers and 
explanations. 

Here is the list. Some new ones are just out. You can't do the best work 
without them. 

Have you them all ? Fill out your set QUICK. 



Blackstone Quizzer A (on Book 1 of Blackstone), 
B " 2 
C " 3 
it u D «i 4 n 

Kent Quizzer E (on book 1 of Kent's Commentaries'* 

F " 2 

ii 3 ii »• 

4 

Domestic Relations, 

Criminal Law, 

Torts, 

Real Property, 

Constitutional Law, 

Contracts, 

Common Law Reading, 

Corporations, - 

Bills, Notes and Checks, 

Equity, - 

Agency, 

Partnership, - 

Sales of Personal Property, 

Evidence, 

~ OTHERS TO FOLLOW 



II 


G 


II 


H 


Quizzer No. 1. 


•* 


No. 2. 


• i 


No. 3. 


'• 


No. 4. 


•• 


No. 5. 


" 


No. 6. 


•• 


No. 8. 


" 


No. 9. 


«« 


No. 10. 


«• 


No. 11. 


11 


No. 12. 


■• 


No. 13. 


ri 


No. 14. 


II 


No. 15. 



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